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.