I’d like to be gone by Christmas.

Not due to sadness (nothing

so trivial, even as she waves to me

across time) but because I’m done.

Or because I’ve no more

agenda, nobody left to impress,

nothing to do that somebody

else cannot do, regardless

of what the sitcoms tell me.

Not that life is no longer

hilarious, but such a space

is opening around my tears

and laughter that I’m no longer

certain if I’m myself or the sky.

So bring it on, dear body

(don’t expect me to do the work):

the casual aneurysm,

pneumonia or multiplication

of cells – what difference

does it make when change

is never new? Not even

that I’ve stopped caring –

but if my tea leaves inform me

I’m through, I’d nod at the news.

Hell is other people: oh boo-

bloody-hoo. But more likely

that I’ll awake next year

beside you; I’d wash the toilet,

teach, read or write

a poem about us again too.

Just in case, let me say goodbye

before it’s all over; for in spite

of what anybody says,

I’ll always love you.