Wednesday, 2:06 P.M.

When I died,

I could only think about

how boring it all was

I did not die pinned in a flooding ravine

with cold water and warm pebbles

cocooning my neck

or stranded in a cell tower,

two thousand and eighty feet

of steel and heaven reigning below me

I did not die floating through the air

in a shootout,

professing my love with a grand, final gesture

or burnt at the stake

a dark red blaze eating my flesh

as the crowd roars

I did not die in shark-infested waters,

a bullseye with jagged fins closing in

or propelled into a vat of steaming acid,

my bones rising to the surface

or even resting in a star-soaked valley,

a small, tranquil river in the background

We all do not die in any

consumable finale—

but on a park bench after

a jog resting in the noon sun—

sneakers, just barely worn in

our writers off-schedule–

credits not yet ready to roll.