It will happen,
perhaps on a Monday morning or Friday evening,
the weather might be mild
or chilly with a chance of rain.
There will certainly be breaking news;
an earthquake killing hundreds in a far-away land,
another movie star arrested for drunk driving,
or one more lone shooter in an American school
which will spark further debate on gun control.
After I’m gone,
my neighbour will still attend
her Saturday morning yoga class,
stretching tendons in downward dog,
my sister will plant her seedlings
in a garden rich with compost,
and the old guy down the street,
won’t stop grumbling about the cost of electricity.
After I’m gone,
my women’s group will meet at Bliss Café
and drink lattes with low-fat milk,
aware of the empty chair at the table.
Remember Port Willunga Beach, one might say,
when Kaye stripped off and dove into the water?
They’re sure to shed tears of laughter
as they recall the wobble
on my fish-belly white bottom.
But don’t be sad that I’m dying,
you see you’re dying too.
Only right now
we have this precious time together,
like the drip on a leaky faucet,

moment

by moment

by moment.