I could have died today
slipped on the stairs,
choked on my own ambition,
looked both ways and still got hit.

But at the end of the day,
I guess I’m allowed another one.
Some clerk in the sky stamped my form:
“Try again tomorrow.”

Funny, how we dodge the reaper
like it’s a game of tag
and still forget who’s “it”.

I could have died today,
from a papercut, a bee’s sting,
or an airborne thing
But here I am,
writing a poem instead of a eulogy,
still late to everything except
the end.