Fear Of A Stupid Death

The fear I have the most trouble shaking
is not the fear of death itself —
I have no fear of inevitable things
like rain or sun or sagging in my chair
with a clogged heart.

It’s the fear of a public and stupid death:

choking on a paintbrush
in a bizarre art accident.
My stomach lining slit
by an errant bay leaf.  Stabbed
with a compass flung
by a petulant eight year old.

I know I’ll laugh about it in the afterlife
but if it happens, if one of those incredible
but embarrassing things takes me out,
in the seconds before I succumb
I know I’ll be thinking,

Christ,
all those years of smoking
and drinking and eating
fried bologna after midnight
were a total waste.