I’m older than I ever thought I’d get
when I was young and forecasting, and yet
my mother’s still alive and doing well
at 95 (which shows one cannot tell
the future with degrees of certainty).
I don’t desire any prophecy
about my date of death – I’d rather not
anticipate that lonesome final spot.

But there is something I would pay to know.
I hate to see the doctor. I avoid
immersion in the common protocols.
I’m rather healthy, as statistics go,
and frankly I’d be more than overjoyed
to know when I will have to make that call.

This entry was posted in Aging, Philosophy, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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