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Waiting (poem)

By Woody Powell

Waiting to die,
Not like waiting for a friend.
Nothing friendly about dying,
Just inevitability.

Waiting to die,
A tedious business,
Filled with unknowing,
How will it feel
To be alone in that moment?
Or to be with my love of 67 years.

Waiting to die,
Much supposition here.
When do I suppose it will happen?
How do I suppose it will feel
Being on the other side of life?
Will I float above my body,
Like some people have described?
Will I float off into nothingness?
Which no one has yet reported,
Probably because they couldn't.

Waiting to die.
An indeterminate stretch of time.
Time filled with loving visitations,
With hours of reading,
With still, staring contemplation
Of something or nothing at all.