Wait! Wait! I'M Not Quite Ready! Poem by Yen Cress

Now in the latter portion of my life on this earth,
I, mildly curious, contemplate the timing and the manner
of my demise.
Knowing I am not immortal does not disturb me;
I will be ready to go when the time comes; indeed,
I am almost ready for that final transition.

I need a few more days to finish this poem,
to tweak it here and there, give it its last emendations.
And, of course, the house will have to be cleaned and tidied,
in contrast to its current state of benign neglect,
its normal condition when I have been gestating a poem,
reading, and walking outdoors to find inspiration,
undisturbed by the settling dust
or the piled-up papers on the table.

A bulging bag of almost-perfectly-good clothes
begs for attention near the sewing machine.
It would be a shame not to get them
whipped into a respectable condition-
missing buttons replaced, split seams resewn-
so that they can be worn without shame
by the ladies at the shelter.
I fear, should I go before the task is done,
the bag and its folded clothes
would be discarded by whoever finds them,
and those ladies will not have a chance to enjoy them.

What about Sammi?
She would need a new home
and a new mistress to faithfully care for her.
Little old dogs face a grim future if
they outlive the ones they have loved since puphood.
She would wonder who to beg treats from,
who to cuddle up with,
whose bed to warm.
It would be much kinder if I outlive her.

And my old familiar, beloved books?
Abandon them? Certainly not!
I could bequeath my library
to all my friends, but they
would have a hard time
passing so many books around.
Perhaps I should assign a few special volumes
to a few special people,
and bestow the hundreds of others
on the new branch library in town.
And those newly acquired books, still
perched in their virgin state on my shelf?
Could I leave those pages unturned,
those intriguing tales unexplored,
and go to that unknown destination
before discussing them with my friends?
I cannot go just yet.

This small home in the rocky hills
is better for me than a million-dollar condo in the city.
I love this retreat,
the wildlife, the peace, the starry nights,
though I have an abundance of things needing storage space
and this tiny home has a dearth of closets.
I see but few other human beings out here,
yet I am never lonely,
having lived in comfortable solitude
(alone, that is, if you don't count pets)
long enough to treasure
both social contacts and their lack.
My sister says it is because I am shy
that I love to be alone,
but perhaps it is more than that.
I love my family, my friends,
but I have always sought my own space.

My own space!
And what more capacious, yet more private, space
could be found for my final resting place
than the Pacific Ocean?
There, I want my ashes to drift and settle
into the cradling waves,
in the silent company of lovely fish and coral reefs,
or in a kelp forest, without the raucousness
of traffic and garbage collectors and stereos.
Whale songs will be sweeter than any dirge,
and my survivors need never feel guilty
for not keeping fresh flowers on my grave.

Time passes, and I've had my turn at the musical chairs.
The concert may pause a moment,
But the game cannot quite end
Until the song is over,
Or I can't find a chair.