The last thing I want is a public death
my last gasp while cheering from the bleachers, 
or stricken in the county clerk’s queue
my car’s registration overdue.

Please don’t let me pass on a plane,
silent passenger beneath a modesty blanket,
or kept on ice for an extended leg
cruise liner at anchor in a foreign bay.

Let me not die with my boots on
while mowing the front yard,
not in my favorite Dylan concert tee
while at a music fest in Cincinnati,

I’d rather not go up in flames,
or down with the ship.
Not like Elvis, so compromised,
or Lee Harvey Oswald, televised.

I suppose I could accept dying at a dive bar, last call,
Bang a Gong blaring on the archaic jukebox,
among friends and regulars would be okay, 
the wake could start without delay.