The End not really expected, just discounted until it arrives without warning.
To others there's the long drawn-out agony of waiting, being eaten alive from within
That most terrible of human fears - of animals, larvae, or, today, cancer.
Three-score and ten is our allotted span, we're told
And all after that is a gift from chance, or luck, or the Almighty
As if we stay through temporary lack of space in Hell
Or through our own stubbornness too unwilling to move on.
Last week I saw my father, spoke to him on a sunny morn
We chatted over finches at a feeder and how nurses were not for chasing.
A talk between man and man, common enough you'd think
This morning he was gone - stubborn and obstinate no more
They say that, near the end, some folk
Wait for something - a visit, a word, an action
That will release them from this mortal coil
Was he waiting for that visit?
J.M. Irwin. 1927 - 2011. R.I.P.