The more you write
The more critical your condition becomes
It starts with a stiffness that prevents the writer
From returning phone calls
And answering e-mails
The only way to be sure they haven’t died
Is to check their blog.

Gradually they are unable
To shop for groceries or fix
Anything more than a shot of whiskey
Or peanut butter and jelly dripping onto smeared
Countertops.

The paralysis is complete when they cannot shower
Change their clothes
Put themselves to bed
They doze at the computer or battered typewriter
In faded jeans and a flannel shirt they stole
From a friend and do not plan
On giving back.

At this point they require a caretaker
The lucky ones have friends or lovers
To heave them under hot water and the unfamiliar
Soap
Or fry eggs in a pan that the diseased
Did not stub out a cigarette in
The unfortunate have only their mothers
Who sigh over their offspring
And clip wistful “Want” ads from
The neighborhood paper.

This is the final stage in art
When it is only artificial affection that keeps
The heart pumping
And words flowing
Yes, the writers are dying
For the only thing that makes them feel
Alive.