I wonder what time of the day I’ll die?

At dawn, drifting off to soaring birdsong

enveloping a slowly lighting sky?


Elevenses? A digestive, your strong

coffee brewing, the paper read as I,

frightened and fearful beg you, don’t be long.


Over lunch? My tuna melt half eaten

I gasp for air and fumble, my head flops

exhausted of life, my body beaten.


During my siesta at four o’clock?

My Kindle on and what I was reading

safely locked where, on the sofa, it dropped.


Evening? With my headphones on reflecting

on the past, moments won or lost: how far

we’ve come. So much goodness to recollect.


Or in my bed at night? The moon and stars

indifferent to my passing or the speck

of dust of who I was or who we are.


Or something brutal I didn’t expect. 


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