At A Wake

At a wake, a chipper older woman
tells me about her friends — how one
had a stroke and died when she was
sixty-two, and another had a stroke and died
at sixty-three, while a third’s husband had one
and he died at just sixty —

there I sit having had two strokes —
well, three but who’s counting —
and I’m sixty-six and I just smile and nod,
and I keep nodding and smiling
and all the time I’m thinking about how
here I am, alive and sitting at a wake; how

everyone here seems older and even
the young ones carry themselves
with some age; how the old ones are falling asleep
in their chairs; and yet, here I am —
awake, not displeased with anything,
really; my clothes fit small upon me and

my eyes hurt like the dickens but
when it comes to it, I am happy enough
to be sitting here still after sixty-six years
of ruining the fabric my life’s been made of —
and if I were to mend it, I’d be a good story
for someone to tell at a wake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T