On New Year’s Eve

I always get weird.

I think about my failures,

for there’ve been more of those

than successes.

I think about my wife,

her gentle, enduring beauty,

and about my life

and how it’s going to unfold

in the next 20 or 30 years.

If I have that long.

I’m closer to death now

than I ever have been before.

So are you.

You know that, right?

Every little day

closer to the big sleep.

And when mine comes

I hope you’ll be at the party,

a big party,

for I will have raged against dying.

Raged hard, obstinate, and fiercely.

Hell, I’m fighting death now.

I mean, aren’t we all?

I’m fighting it all the time.

Because it’s going to be 2020 in about 12 hours,

and, you know, I have shit to do.

(Brisbane, California, November and December, 2019. See my other work here and here.)