Sickness

Outside, early morning just before dawn

I set my coffee cup down on the ground beside me

and a single long strand of a weed pokes down

into the dark liquid and rather than move my cup

I grasp that stalk between my callused fingers and pull

it up by the roots, toss it down the hill and later

I drink from my mug and set it in a new place anyway

so it occurs to me that we all shoulder Death’s

inevitable cloak from time to time

I am no better than a sickness.