It can’t be terminal
because I’m entirely too interesting
to die in my thirties.
Dying young is romantic,
all James Dean ball of fire
and leave a pretty corpse.
Dozens of “better to burn
out than fade away” clichés,
but it guarantees a certain
type of memory
and appropriately tragic grieving.
Long life is all bittersweet
sunset metaphors and lavender smells
hiding the entirely understandable stench
of piss that seeps into every room.
It’s fond remembrances and casseroles
and marks made and people left behind
and wry smiles in memorium.
But dying in your thirties
is just so lame,
like a bad joke with a non sequitor punchline.
Because you’ve just started
to understand your ignorance
but haven’t managed to learn
what anything means yet.
Accountants die in their thirties,
struck unsuspecting by buses
when the light changes,
or insurance salesmen that choke
on a radish in their Ryan’s food bar salad.
So because I am far too interesting
to die before I’ve fully explored
how amazing I really will be,
then it must be nothing.