The pills for sleeping work,
which is good, I suppose.
When I gave up my bad habits,
sleep left with them,
and now, instead of beer,
I take cold medications
to trick my body into letting me go.
On bad days, the trade seems farcical;
both ways give me hangovers.
On less bad days, I take my pills
and sleep well and think
about how my old age will be less terrible
without booze and cigarettes
to steal my elasticity.
On better days, I relish my memory,
that I can account for all my time,
and I tick off all the things I know now
one by one
down each of my fingers' knuckles.