you’d be surprised
said the man in the funeral house basement
how few of us die from switchblades
gunshot wounds
or blown apart by explosives
how few we strangle
or beat to death
no, no, most of us die from forgetting
to take the next breath
or to squeeze the heart again
die with a faint surprise
that life did not rescue us
as we daydreamed
or thought about a cat sleeping
this morning was a privilege of sorts
the boy had outrun his heart
rounding third and heading home
on what might have been a home run
but before him I prepared
a businessman who digested his dinner
and after the boy a great aunt
who considered another day without cards
sometimes I pray to die with enthusiasm
energy
zest
instead of the usual
sigh from a flower wilting
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