Mainly (the old saw goes), our writers’ themes
Are love and death. And, I suppose, that’s true.
The verses of alas, alack, fill reams,
Though fewer than lamenting lovers’ blues.
Today, I’ll stick with death, because it’s near
(At eighty-two those love poems sound so frail).
That imminence creates no panicked fear
But does leave my serenity assailed.
I do not wish to be a source of grief
And death is such a troubling affair
I haven’t time, and, frankly, would be lief
To live enough to educate my heirs.
What pains is not my death—what wracks my mind?
The cars, accounts, the clutter left behind.
(9/24/12)