Sick

I cling to the underbelly
of society's fringe
clinging like a baby possum
at its mama's
soft fur.
And I'm floundering
among El Chuco's
citizenry
clutching at crumbs
sifting through dregs
sick
tumor- wracked
with a weakening heart
( but plenty of corazón)
medicine but a paltry balm-
courted by,
nipped at,
by Death,
I'm " unproductive"
unimportant...
Still, poetry is my saviour-
it keeps me grounded
on my perplexing path
this maddening maze
of
infirmity,
need,
too worn to
really live-
to driven
to die...

This poem is about: 
Me

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