We like to cross things off our lists.
The wedding gift has been shipped.
Groceries in the fridge. Book written.
Dying is the last item to be checked off the list.
I wish I could cross it off myself as I was
in the act. I’d insert a pink ink cartridge
in my special Pilot, draw a withering line
through the word die (maybe a smiley face?)
as my last breath left my lungs. Be there for me
if and when, as I might need you to hand
me my pen. Hand me my pen.