Bronchial Asthma

I forgot my life

left it in some bargain bin,

a flitter of glitter

little old ladies ignore

in their endless opportunity quest.

I note each breath you take

watching the mist seep from your mask,

somewhere the falcon soars

but not with me this night.

High voices chatter

deep voices command

a party envelopes the street.

What is their essence?

What the fuck am I doing?

Why do I question the

ruckus and rousting of

folk following their lives?

There is a rhythm I follow

a melody syncopated,

when true it's good but

I dread the deadly offbeat.

As you breathe deeply

I worry every second,

perhaps the snores will stop,

the rhythm will falter

and I'll only hear the chatter

of parties.