Waiting for the Call
 

A poem or a free lunch,
Like hunger or thirst,
Turns up when you least expect it.
To move you to create or consume,
Like air or fire,
Neither of which you can touch,
Only use, for breath or warmth,
To feed, nourish and satisfy.

The human curse of age,
Which haunts us all from birth,
Wrinkle by wrinkle, tooth by tooth,
And sin by sin,
It drags us to decay,
Towards the inevitable end.
It’s a wonder we survive,
Long enough to procreate.

Life and living,
The space between birth and death,
A timer all to ourselves,
A beating heart,
The clock of life,
A winding hand,
Linked imperceptibly,
To a winding sheet.

Is death as tedious as life,
Or just as exciting?
Ignorant of what is to come,
One waits and waits for the call.
And like a poem or a free lunch,
Or hunger and thirst,
It turns up,
When you least expect it.