Last Words
Feb 13 2009


When my uncle died
he had a chance to express his thanks.
He regretted nothing, he said,
it was a full life.
He was content to give up the fight,
was no longer afraid.

I measure myself against
my own hypothetical deathbed.
Will I, too, be content,
or full of resentment
of private laments?
I suspect
it’s the things undone I’ll most regret,
not anything I did —
all the forks in the road
not taken
paved with gold,
the dead-ends and roundabouts
conveniently missed.
Although if, as they say, character is destiny,
then even with the wisdom of age
I could go back
do it all again
and nothing much would change.
And I don’t need to grow any older
to know
that youth is wasted on the young,
when time is so cheap
we squander it —
drifting aimlessly;
or too impatient
to be all grown-up.

Except it will be a patch of ice
as the bus barrels past;
or an artery, seizing-up
walking to the corner store.
No loved ones gathered ‘round,
no hands held,
no final words.
Just strangers, hovering,
someone clumsily
feeling for a pulse,
wondering
who the old guy is.