i know how it would go, if i were to die of old age.
i think i would start to hear a ticking
like a kitchen timer, with a few hours left - careful
with the roast, it's hot.
i think i know how two unseen hands, with
cattle prod fingers,
would gently prod me in the side to keep me awake,
a child at three a.m. on Christmas eve,
waiting for a "clump" from a fat, old man's boots
dirty with soot, white beard a cloak of charcoal,
before bolting downstairs at first light
and into my reaper's hands.