Poetry Friday: Future Tense (For Roger Ebert)
It is going to happen isn't it?
Though not from the fiction
my preacher spun from his pulpit
about being conceived in sin.
No, from my doctor's version
it will be the unraveling story
of my genes measured
in a tangle of IV drips
that will cocoon my hospital bed.
But the future I'd like to imagine
is while strolling with my wife of 50+
summers, and she's walked ahead,
there'll be throb in my arm.
And I'll stumble toward a bench
to catch a final glimpse of the wind
wrapping her skirt around her legs.