Fading to Black Gracefully

I am dying. I know that. My doctor
Is coy, but he never insists that I'm
Going to live. What he does is
Prescribe a grab-bag of medicines,
Each of which, as he says, raises
The probability that I'll survive
For a while. I'm not sure if my wife
Will admit that I'm dying. She'd
Rather I didn't, and, as she is wont,
She is willing me into some semblance
Of health. She worries about money,
So, though we have lots, she will not
Retire, which means that I can't,
And that means that the clock ticks
Ominously, erasing the time I would
Have to be perfectly idle, asleep
On a beach, an old man pleased
To be letting his life peter out
Very pleasantly. Since I will die,
There's no chance I won't, why can't
I do it that way?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 59 times
Written on 2017-02-11 at 15:48

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