If I continue living, I will fail
by increments – I fear the hearing’s next.
The years fling inflammation and assail
the circulation and I’m undersexed
already, bent to burp with gas attacks,
reducing height and vigor every year,
obtaining bumps and building cataracts …
But how can I depart while you’re still here?

I’d miss a week from Wednesday afternoon.
I couldn’t watch you learn to dance or write.
Perhaps I shouldn’t shuffle off this soon;
if I postpone, the future’s out of sight.
On balance, after contemplation, I
decide to live some more before I die.