Hit by a Bus

[[{"type":"media","view_mode":"media_crop","fid":"17451","attributes":{"alt":"","class":"media-image media-image-right","id":"media_crop_6565600670578","media_crop_h":"0","media_crop_image_style":"-1","media_crop_instance":"3618","media_crop_rotate":"0","media_crop_scale_h":"119","media_crop_scale_w":"100","media_crop_w":"0","media_crop_x":"0","media_crop_y":"0","style":"float: right;","title":" ","typeof":"foaf:Image"}}]]That’s how he’d like to go,

he tells me, not by this slow

seeding of liver and spine,

not with all the tears and long

good-byes. Yet he works

fifty hours, doesn’t feel sick,

even ran five miles before

our appointment. He tells me

he’s in training for a warrior

marathon next summer,

a fundraiser for the cure,

that he works out with the Stones

in his earbuds, legs pumping

to the beat, laughing that

he still can’t get no satisfaction,

refusing to believe you can’t

always get what you want.