Seem to have reached the age where we're dropping like flies. This poem:
We say “passed” as if they’d tossed a football.
Some use “transitioned” so you imagine a Star Trek transporter beam.
It doesn’t help.
Lately it seems not a month goes by. . .
until I hear myself tell the boys, “You want a reliable career? They’re called funeral directors now.”
I need to get out, get on with it. Live on in their name, as we say.
But it does get lonely in here.
Like when you think of a joke that only they’d get and look around to finger some trinket left behind.
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