This is very much a free write. Frankly, I was happy to write anything. I’ve been in such a poem-less space. Just let me know if you think it has possibility.

Pink clouds across my torso pose the question
when is a life worth living?
the earthy smell of wild geranium
doctors can’t explain
some inflammation or other
when I'm hot the sky grows angrier
it’s an effort, pushing dad and a wheelchair
to another appointment
he holds out less
hope I’m afraid
to ask him too many questions
I used to joke that if I couldn’t read anymore
I might as well be dead
now I don't joke
what is the price of autonomy?
I remember as a child
dad and I on a perpetual shore
under the cool dome of horizon
after a turbulent storm
skipping stones across the water
just to see them ripple
no, really, is it enough
to see the sunrise,
exchange a smile,
hear the ocean?
a perfect sand dollar
of irritation wonders
at the aging expectation
is he entitled to his
exhaustion?
do I help him
live or die?