Avoid common mistakes on your manuscript.
Episodes stitched together by whiskey, Winehouse,
what ifs, enough soot & tar for a bubble bath.
Do forty-four pack years doom me like Doctor Faust’s
twenty-four with Mephistopheles? Screw the math.
The sun scoffs at the small spark cupped in my hands.
A loose cotton thread frayed by mindless fingering,
quivering, I pray to be cut before I learn
how much carcinoma costs, what lingering
means. I see myself as ash in a pink salt urn
The stars despise me for stomping out my light.
before my fibrosis tastes like burnt tin foil.
If I run everyday, eat more salad than fries,
if I stop starting mornings with a drag & lies,
could I pause/rewind this spinning mortal coil?
But the moon has felt the pain of rebirth and longing.
It’s in her dry eyes, her cracked lips and yellowed teeth,
a smile that knows the illusion of reprieve.
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Lee, M. Nick in Time. J Med Humanit 41, 261 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1007/s10912-019-09589-3
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DOI: https://doi.org/10.1007/s10912-019-09589-3