Now that I’ve entered
the last decade of my life,
I vow to keep my remaining
days meaningful as possible.
No television before 6:00 pm,
and a new poem every day.
A widow-maker by design:
I will turn red in the face
with all my might struggling
to move the contents of my
colon out the sphincter door
helping me to die a good death.
My plan reminds me of an old joke:
Two old ladies sitting in a double-
seated outhouse listening to someone
playing Dante’s-inferno atonal music
on a cello—when one lady reminds
the other: That is a hard piece!