The day she fell my mother had
30 rolls of toilet paper
neatly on her linen closet shelves.
The list of things I might not do again,
like buy a box of toothpicks or an awl,
grows longer every day.
The bucket list begun in jest
becomes a merciless burlesque ,
emended then erased and then discarded.
I’ll never see the North Pole nor
will drive a Lamborghini.
My father hadn’t owned a car for 40 years
the night he died.
I sing off key, write poetry, I dream
of notoriety, have spices in my pantry
that I’ll leave my heirs.
I celebrate my dying day by living past it every year
—reset the clock for one more lap around the sun;
but how few errands left to run?
How many chores are finally done?
Have I finished changing diapers (but my own)?
Am I living in my final home?
Will the last embrace be hospiced or
will I go alone?
