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.