It can never end well,

in that it ends.

A professor emiritus

drooling into his porridge,

his room silent against the clattering of trays

on the cart in the hall,

the nurses call.

Or dear great grandma

falling into final sleep

in her farm house bed,

encircled by her family,

all who have lately discovered

their only recourse is to weep

in the face of the dead.

Even among those who cherish

the hope of a vague continuation,

after,

in the thickening fog beyond.

Yes, even for those,

each knows

it must end to begin again,

with only dimming question marks

to hold too,

faith,

a weak,

though still standing partner,

with whom to face final moments.

The mumbling lunatic in Bryant Park,

swatting flies where there be none.

The happy, old, wanderer in the woods

whispering to the tall pines

though they pay him no mind.

Even the chipmunks are oblivious.

They and the pines could care less.

Still he whispers and laughs.

It ends for all.

And the only control I have

not to be surrendered,

the only mitigation,

the only negotiation

allowed

is how I play my last card.

Placing it on the table, gently.

Knowing I have lived

the best I could have.

Knowing all my right and wrong choices

were the best I could have made.

Then I see my smile reflected back

in the kindly face of inevitability.

It reaches out to me.

It takes my hand.