adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, September 02, 2017

To Go, a poem

To Go

If it’s time that I must go,
at age an hundred and ten or so,
I would choose to slip away,
surfing on a sunny day.
Waves double-overhead, of course —
thrown at last, by that wild horse,
driven into the patient reef,
neck broken in a moment brief.

Yes, that’s the way I want to go,
at age an hundred and ten or so,
and who’s to say, I just might!
Or failing that, a barroom fight —
a jealous husband knocks me dead,
bottle broken over my head
(let it be anything but Merlot!) —
that’s a suitable way to go.

I know when all is done and said
I’m likely to die in my own bed
stricken down by heart attack;
as long as I’m not alone in the sack,
I’ll consider it well enough played
and hope the girls aren’t too dismayed,
when it’s time that I must go,
at age an hundred and ten or so.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

Obviously not too serious

Post a Comment