Last night
came and went and
I’m still here
at daybreak. 
A bit of a 
surprise: never sure
these days if I
will be, but so far,
I’m holding on.

Not sure why
I’m so certain 
that when it happens
I’ll die in my
sleep. Just as possible
that I’ll fall face first into 
the dirty livingroom

or be discovered
sitting upright
and quite stiff
on the couch,
laptop hibernating
with a mediocre new poem
unfinished under the darkness
on the screen,
the cat anxiously
weaving her fear against
my legs and the window
still open,
some small breeze trickling
through my hair.
Will my eyes still be open?
I would hate to think so.
Whenever I visualize
my demise,
I’m asleep. I don’t want
to see it coming.
Would rather be surprised
to wake up, if in fact
this is how it happens,
in a new existence
with no sense 
of impending transition.
I mean, when I die 
it should reflect
how I’ve always lived: 
shiftlessly, a lazy drifter, 

shocked by things
everyone else
sees coming 
miles and years away.