Self-Portrait as the Dying Announcer Inside of You

I am writing to the dying announcer inside you,
drunk on his bar stool & dumb to his fourth act
of swallowing three goldfish.

The audience has walked away, blown their noses
and walked away to watch a trained seal count
your blessings while the glare of sirens grows near.

Soon the auditorium doors will slam shut, the mouth
of the ambulance will open and whistle you off
to the padded-paddle room

where three milkmen will fit you into your birthday suit.
You might order some McDonald fries.
Some angel will inject you with something

just right to make the world go all slurry.
When you wake up nothing will seem to fit.