Ode to my death.
It’s many years in the future,
Inexorable, like a bird taking flight.
Or it’s tomorrow, a pair of brakes
Slammed and impact, bright light, nothing.
I don’t know when it’s coming, but when it does,
I won’t be prepared.
There’s too much to live for.
Too much to see.
But all good things end, and
The party can’t last. There’s always
A final call.
Even if it’s a last, dying gasp
Of a pandemic victim
Breathing her last
Alone in a hospital room in
A building understaffed, underfunded–
Overrun.
Me? I’d rather a little death or six,
A la the French,
Who are poetic and bitter.
I am not French.
I am poetic.
I am bitter, after two years
Of this worldwide trauma
No one seems to be able
(Or willing)
To quell.