Four clotted consonants between two deep breaths.
Asthma.
Mainly compelled but halfway choosing to sit it out,
leaving a trail of books and apple cores,
I closely followed the action from out of bounds,
posturing behind binding and dust jacket,
keeping on eye on the play.
Who knew what transformed a child’s sleep
into a racing gasping vigil?
One minute, the nightly hush,
the next a crosstown chase
racked with light and motion.
But once the nurse had me jazzed full of speed,
I could wait out my cure in another place,
jumping bodily ship,
watching its voltage climb dangerously high,
pulling for a personal record, right off the scale.
To this day I’ve got a jones for adrenaline
and all its backroom cronies:
horror, sex, anticipation.
Cheap thrills that fall straight into my lap.
And those that will cost me plenty.