Today, tomorrow; is there a difference?
Poems. Asthma. Kings.
In this dream I am as I truly am.
In most of my dreams I am far younger,
No wife, no children, and strong as an ox,
As I once was.
Not in this dream.
I am near seventy, have asthma
And arthritic feet that hurt.
I am myself.
I am talking to a girl in a wheel chair,
Who is clearly paraplegic,
Although she never says exactly what is wrong.
She is really rather pretty,
Perhaps forty years younger than I am,
And very upset.
In the dream her name is never said.
She is angry and crying and often quite obscene.
No one will ever want her, she is telling me.
No one will even so much as hold her,
Much less make love to her.
I am trying to console her.
I tell her she can’t possibly know that,
Not as young as she is.
She has years yet to be, to meet someone.
She says a very harsh word
And laughs a derisive sort of laugh.
What about me?
Would I take off her clothes?
Would I make love her just as she is?
Would I kiss her body, lick her, enter her?
I would, I insist, but I am married, so I can’t.
I have a wife who I love
And who is very much alive,
And I am a faithful, honest man.
And what about my age?
A young girl can do so much better.
She curses again and calls me a liar.
It’s the chair, it’s her legs, she tells me,
And nothing more, and she rolls herself away.
I feel terrible and begin to cry,
Weeping and sobbing.
I would hold her... wouldn’t I?
Am I so shallow?
I put my head inside my chest and look at my heart.
In this dream I can do that.
My heart is tiny and looks worn out.
How much longer will it go?
I wake up wheezing with asthma
And my albuterol inhaler isn’t enough to ease it.
I have a breathing treatment from my nebulizer
As I type this out, and a dull sort of headache
Lays on the left side of my head.
Is it Saturday, or the end of days?
Time is so slow, and I am often so blind.
Where is a friend?
Where is a window to open?
This valley answers to no one.
Ah, for just an ounce of sorrow,
So that I could be certain that I can still feel.
I don’t think we really need any kings in the world.
Their hands are heavy, like gold.
Their sweat is poison.
What is a kingdom anyway? It is a birdcage
Left outside to torture the imprisoned bird
With a long look at freedom.
Businessmen, suffocated by greed,
Often want to be king, or to get rich
Serving one. That never turns out well.
They are like priests whose god is money.
And I have grown weary of bowing;
Haven’t you? All of those crowns
Would make lovely paperweights.
Think of it - on a windy day
We could leave the windows open
With our papers right out on the desk.
We’ll let the poor sit on the thrones
And feel the breeze on their faces.
Death is knocking at the door.
Please, let him in.
I wasn’t going to live forever anyway.
Death has always been waiting for me,
Like a poor man waiting at a bus stop.
Today, tomorrow; is there a difference?
I’m not sure what comes next, but whatever it is,
I would rather stroll in upright than cower and wait.
Face the end of it all with a glib remark.
A smirk.
Death is a hot iron, and friend,
This shirt is wrinkled.
James Lee Jobe
16 JULY 2026
