Checkup

We slink to the doctor every year;
He listens minutely through stethoscopes
And snarls of electrodes,
Straining to hear the surefooted stomp
Of death approaching.
And every year,
He shakes his head and says with a smile:
"There's nothing to worry about,
Nothing yet."
Not yet, for chances are
Death will come galloping through the hawthorns
Unannounced, with silent hoofbeats,
To strike us down without a sound
Save a whoosh and faint ringing in the ears.

Reviews

[Vol]

Wilyem,
I've never heard it expressed better... The inevitability is completely without recourse... we are done, all of us! The best we can hope for is that it doesn't hurt too badly or too long.
Vol