Weekends,
like an asthma attack
slip up slowly,
unnoticed, the stairs
are a little harder
to climb

The details
slip from memory
as I try to read
and answer the
mail I want,
and block the
spam, spam, damn!

But, I can't
catch up, I can't
ease off, I can't
tell the truth,
because, I don't
know the truth.

It's a little harder
to walk, nor is it
easier to talk,
and whatever I
write, seems trite.