if i was told to stop to catch my breath
would that mean i’ve been without for a while?
if that’s the case, you'd think i’m closer to death,
who so far I’ve dodged through dumb luck and guile.
i’ve stared into its face, felt it hot on my neck,
even spied it sly in the far corner of my eye.
there’ve been times when i said, “oh, what the heck,”
but i guess slippery me’s time wasn’t quite nigh.
through childhood this and that (even polio back then, too),
threatened by knives and guns in dark hallways.
don’t know why i’m still here, though bet it's for you,
i never imagined our times two was for always.
so i’ll keep panting while walking my race each day.
no, doesn’t make my last breath simpler to grasp by death.
you see, i’ve cheated - trompe la mort - as the french say.
death doesn't know you long ago took away my breath.
On Day 28 of NaPoWriMo (after taking a day off), I come back to a prompt for a “death” poem. Jeez, don’t I mope and whine enough for you, Robert? Anyway, this is what I came up with. I must be getting soft in my old age.
A Thing for Words 