I was always surprised

how warm milk was

when I milked a herd,

and how cold my father’s

body became as red rivulets froze,

after he stopped breathing.

How easy it used to be

to laugh out loud

and stomp my feet

to not pee in my pants.

Now, nothing

seems quite so funny:

Every morning

I read the obituaries

to make sure I’m not there.

I worry about my insomniac friend

with the wit of Oscar Wilde,

who now roams dark streets

weeping to himself.

We hold each other.

I must remind him

what it feels like

to be alive.