When I died,
I could only think about
how boring it all was
I did not die pinned in a flooding ravine
with cold water and warm pebbles
cocooning my neck
or stranded in a cell tower,
two thousand and eighty feet
of steel and heaven reigning below me
I did not die floating through the air
in a shootout,
professing my love with a grand, final gesture
or burnt at the stake
a dark red blaze eating my flesh
as the crowd roars
I did not die in shark-infested waters,
a bullseye with jagged fins closing in
or propelled into a vat of steaming acid,
my bones rising to the surface
or even resting in a star-soaked valley,
a small, tranquil river in the background
We all do not die in any
consumable finale—
but on a park bench after
a jog resting in the noon sun—
sneakers, just barely worn in
our writers off-schedule–
credits not yet ready to roll.