As I Sit

As I sit,
pondering Beckett,
the depressive genius from the Emerald Isle,
I wonder,
Ponder,
If genius and infirmity
Are inexplicably linked
They say all the most revered artists were
A few sandwiches less than a party.
And yet,
I just have a cough.
True, the irrevocable nature of my cough,
The cough that feels like my lung has a chasm in its taut, pink wall,
Making me hack up balls of phlegm,
Is to me a form of madness-
I sit here considering
How it may be better if I hacked out my own windpipe-
Would it hurt the lesser?
Considering the plays of Beckett and Albee,
reflecting the bleak and irresolute nature of life¦.

¦¦it reminds me of my cough; infinite, cyclic, unchanging in nature all but for a slight variation in the wheezing.