2008 September 1 poem: THAT WHEEZE

THAT WHEEZE

What shall I do about that
wheeze in my nose? I remember what I used to do years ago -
what helped to make matters worse though it made them
better for a hot minute - I had a benzedrine inhaler, and
later a menthol one. In those days I smoked all day long
and never gave any thought to what I would be doing now,
half a century later. Now I remember that I have a little
squirt bottle of saline inhalant but damficn remember
where it is but I go searching through drawers and
containers and sure enough: squirt, sniff, wheeze gone.
On my walks I pass LVNs on break, smoking away; I say
that's what put me here and they nod sagely but
one thing I have learned: most young people don't
expect to get old. They expect to be bombed or
otherwise done away with by their own kind before
they'll have the chance. Funny though that none of them
seem to be planning to do in their peers. Rome
perished from lead, so it's surmised; Western
Civ. may succumb to
thoughtlessness.