ASCENSION

When I used to cough,

it was from smoking pot;

now, with a plague underfoot,

that’s less the case than not.

At any rate,

when one comes on,

I sit up straight,

forearms on my knees,

leaning over 

so gravity

takes the weight

of my heart 

off my lungs.

Gradually

I feel those leathery

old balloons shrivel in,

then out expansively,

through the upper arc

of my curved spine,

like an angel’s wings

shouldering toward

the vault of heaven,

lifting me bodily

through another breath,

for whatever reason

it might all be worth.