Head Cold
Yuck. I'm in no shape to try to comment intelligently on anything today, so instead I'll post an old poem--a sonnet from the period in which I was trying to learn forms.
Living Will
If I should live to know which trip’s my last,
then let me board my death-bed unafraid
and half-forgetting everything that’s passed.
Let sober friends and family come to trade
their last good-byes for mine, (we’ll all be brave)
and leaving with their closure, take their gloom.
(Truth is, I doubt I’ll miss them from the grave.)
For company I’d rather have a room-
mate, a stranger on the train who travels
light and doesn’t fuss over details,
whose life in wild anecdotes unravels
as we kick back with our cocktails, ride the rails,
who jokes about the pros and cons of death,
and makes me laugh so hard I lose my breath.
