Is it so morose to envision my last room,
The sanctuary where I’ll breathe my last?
Can I choose what might not be chooseable,
What might be at the mercy of happenstance?
I’ll know it when I know it…or will I?
Will I be caught off-guard or simply too sedated,
Will dementia have interfered, robbing me even of
Life’s finiteness? This last room is a gamble.
How often have I said goodbye upon parting,
Exchanged glances with spaces that have been conduits,
Shelters that supported my goals and ideals. Saw me in love
Or quick to anger, observed my despair that lingered for days.
Too many rooms to call my own. All borrowed
Apartments and houses and childhood bedrooms,
Each, harbingers of futures unimaginable,
Less fire and brimstone, more salutary if capricious.
I want my last room to exude the verve of freedom,
Letting all the love flow effortlessly in the air.
I long for a breeze from wide open windows
So that the sun may satiate my bones in a final caress.
bymax7 