I have less time to live than I have lived,
not counting those other times.
If I’m lucky enough to reach
my early nineties, even ninety five
would be fine so long as I know
who I am.
where I am,
what I am
and why I am.
If I am ninety three,
shuffling, shoeless, down some
carpeted, prefuneral nursing home,
able only to shit myself,
I would settle for just twenty
more years of laughter, snow shoveling,
loving, writing these poems.
It would be enough,
please.