I lie perfectly still—don’t move a muscle,
even when a fly lands on my dead nose.
In my next life, I imagine falling in love all over again
with my wife of almost 70 years.
She tip-toes around me like a lady-slipper flower,
and asks: What the hell are you doing?
I confess I’m re-living the memory of our first kiss—
and the madness of falling in love with you.
She envelops me with a gargantuan hug—
squeezing me back into to life.
I reach for my trumpet and start playing:
Flight Of The Bumblebee.