The Choice

It is only here, when the monstrous wad of tissues
soaked in Feeling Too Much For Your Own Good
is coughed up like a ball made from the hair on your arms-
and put into a trash, then into another, far, far
away where you know, eventually, it will be incinerated. 

It is only here, when the last bead of sweat
Is sewn onto your favourite cardigan (the one
you slept in because it smelled like the night
you needed to never forget).

It is only here, when your bones have stretched
out, you will find the ache of immobility has been replaced
with the reassuring sting of beginning life again.