If I were dead, it wouldn’t be that odd.
I’ve almost lived three score and ten right now.
I’m old enough to meet whatever God
arranged to follow life, of what and how
and never why. I wouldn’t be that stunned
to die, although I wish for decades more.
And if I passed, my dears would have to fund
and cheer themselves, successfully I’m sure.

As old as 42 and 36
my offspring are, both capable and smart.
They don’t need me to analyze or fix
their circumstances. I won’t even start
to worry. I’d not fret if I were dead.
I’ll leave them to their lots, and write instead.