No matter how we try to deny it,
the death rate hovers around 100%.
I am pleasantly surprised each day
to awake and find me right there where
I left me last night. I splash away
the mist so I can see my face and soon
it’s there to reassure me I’ve been given
another bright morning.

Sometimes I trust the weather enough
to grab a bag of bread crumbs so the birds
can join me for breakfast. I take it out
in what passes for sleepwear—capris
and a huge cotton shirt—appropriate
for a midnight fire alarm, a trip to the ER
or for feeding birds. So far I haven’t
heard a chirp of complaint.

Preparing for death is difficult. We are
as disparate in our dying as in our birth.
They come in the same package.
We may have had vague warnings, or even
a frightening MRI. Still, it comes
as a shock. I can give you no hints.
None, that is, which haven’t been worn trite
by greeting card poets and oldsters who
might be forgiven for thinking they are wise.

I feel no glee in saying I told you so.
If you are surprised when your diagnosis
includes one of the seven deadly synonyms,
my only word of advice is to keep living
until you cannot. And feed the birds
as long as you can.

epa
6/4/18