I’m old, don’t start with me
Don’t talk of deadlines
Or complain about the occasional
Twitch of middle age
There are people I know,
Dearly beloved,
Who worry that death will take them
Before their great work is done
Others who panic
Thinking their great work,
Having taken place in irascible youth,
Will fade without recognition
Or that the world, God forbid,
And all its minions,
Might come to misconstrue
Their contribution, mistaking it for exuberance.
As for me, it could happen
That I’m done before I die,
Or otherwise
Timing, they say, is everything.