THIS IS THE LIFE

I can’t figure out where the ants
are coming from. All day oily

tributaries shiver down the walls
while I smoke pot and blot them out

with my thumb between trips to the bathroom
to vomit bile from chemo, which, like death,

is such a goddamn cliché. Hair drifts
from my skull to pile on the tile, brittle

and sallow as rotten wheat. I’m dying
slower, which means it’s working,

which means I can keep getting older
like I deserve it. Light shreds

through the shades while I crush
every single ant I see. Life is nothing

but a thievery of hours and I can’t even
be grateful I haven’t gotten caught. I kill

what I can, crust my fingers with skeletons
weaker than mine. We’re the same –

the cancer, the ants, me. Everybody
is just trying to eat.