Please

Bodybag,
he said,
put me
in a bodybag and
drop me
in a hole.

He had the right
idea.

No sense
dragging on.

No sense in
living old
and constantly
complaining,
habitually making
everybody's
ears
menstrate.

He was right,
I believed him.

Die
when the time
comes.

Live
right here
in this moment
with me
n
o
w.

Complain
when they
zip
you
up.

Please.

I'm running
out of
rags.