The Poet Listens To Atmosphere And Cries For An Hour Straight

dying was supposed to be
the only guaranteed thing.
that the end is the end,
and there’s no use arguing it
any other way.
but I still see him whenever I pass
bicyclists on windy roads,
when I see men with wild hair spilling out
beneath helmets,
or maybe most haunting,
when I see them bald,
see them racing in a wheelchair
like they know the clock on the wall
is getting louder each day.
I am getting used to the lurch
in my stomach
every time I am sure
I see his face.