Racing Into Funeral Plots

me looking not so happy

Did I do it?

Just barely, with minutes to spare.

There is always too little time.

I want to do twenty-four things,

but three will have to suffice.

Life is longer at five than at thirty-eight.

At five, I had been alive forever.

I had been five forever.

Now, everything is only yesterday,

and I race headlong into five years from now.

I get letters from a local cemetery.

They insist that it's good to think ahead

when it comes to picking out our funeral plots.

I can't imagine that I'll care moments from now

when I'm relieved of this speeding meat train I'm on.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

I was doing this.

I very nearly forgot,

but, now that I'm back, the moment's grown a little longer.

I keep forgetting that I can slow this bitch down

when I remember to see what's right in front of me.


The above poem is a response to

Amy Turn Sharp's call for 5-minute breakfast poems on Fridays during the month of April


In Onion's Face

Five Star Friday's 146th Edition Is Brought to You By Carol Burnett