Don’t Speak of My Death

Don’t speak of it, no one knows

I’m slowly dying, not a regular death.

You know the kind, family gathered

you show them the event of their lives.

They cry. It’s working you see, eyes gobbling

the back of your sockets. Wow!

Grandpa’s going out with a bang and a twang.

No, not that kind. My death will be bookmarked

by wheezing and whistling of my lungs.

No one will watch. That’s okay you see.

My crooked crab apple will soothe its only friend

hiding its happiness from the humming birds,

friends that never hover near a dying wasp.