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.