I’ll likely be expired by then,
transformed, maybe
into a will-o’-the-wisp
floating in a marsh by the sea.
I wonder how I’ll go
alone, or not—
in a car,
by drowning, freak accident
slowly rot
from some common pox that preys on elderly Goth.
Or will I curl up like a cat
purring at my mother’s feet
as she rocks beside some heavenly fire?
Maybe I’ll pass my last years with my daughter
planting lupines in the valleys
and at the side of roads.
And then I will paint them.
I will take up square dancing, easy steps coaxing me along
for an allemande left, swing your partner,
old codger grabbing me by the waist
steadying my crumbling knees and flat feet.
As I commune with the moon,
sail off in my hammock to become
a loon’s mate in the bay
Joe will hear me and understand.