I Claim that Title

I am not a Joseph
but a Lazarus
still muddy with the
clay of mortality
clinging and hardening,
golem-like, on my
features.

This is not a
hobby! I hoarsely
croak through tarry
lips and scary teeth.
I witness your passion
and come
silently standing.

You called me
if you called "poet," a coin
debased in usage.
As spent as I have been,
you recall me, resisting,
to life. No longer a code blue,
the patient is only
critical.