Obituaries I

— Dave Eisbach

As the crescendo of years
piling upon each other mounts,
my anticipated appetite
for obituaries has grown.
Those listed, younger than I
plus those of my age bring
a relieved schadenfreude
along with an almost gleeful
“Thank God it’s not me!”
Age eighty-four stands out,
giving me pause.
Mother, who didn’t take care,
died at eighty-seven; her sister,
who did, reached a hundred five.
I hope to share those genes.
My care lies comfortably between.
Now, I’m beginning to think “yoga.”


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