I’m at that time in my life

where, now, the Reaper

now looms as the big interrupter

in my scheme to always – be.

I live in a community of gray hairs

where an actuaries job is actually pretty simple,

me with not many expendable years

to fuck up his fatal conclusion

about my own!

Where we’re all way past the danger

of dying before our time.

Where only inter-net-rip-off-artists

will sell me life insurance

and I shouldn’t stress over saving big money

for some 37 Day Cruise to the Med,

all expenses included

and a 10-year CD at 3.4 percent makes no sense at all

simce I will most assuredly

be dead

just in time for its maturity.

So.

What to do?

I could become the crotchety old man

perpetually pissed off at his Timex

for taking a licking but keeping on ticking!

(Sort of dated myself there, didn’t I?)

Who no one wants to pass an hour with

on a shady porch when it’s a humid 96 degrees

at 2PM on a Carolina August afternoon!

Nah!

That’s not me, not really.

OK.

So,

maybe I’ll just push out the edges of the envelope a bit.

Become that story telling curmudgeon

occasionally some what sarcastic old shit

who tells it like it was

that made it like it is

and laughs a lot

at a lot

’cause he knows Time is way to serious

to take too serious.

And maybe I’ll give myself the Grace

God does

to forgive myself of all my Legions.

For there’s more sand in the bottom bottle

than there is in the top

and no power on earth can reverse it.

So,

Please.

I am – begging- you.

(You can hear it in my voice, can’t you?)

I’ll pay for your slice of apple pie and your cup of tea

if you’ll be willing

just to sit with me

and, simply

listen

for a spell…

if only for the hell

of it.