dying was supposed to be
the only guaranteed thing.
that the end is the end,
and there’s no use arguing it
any other way.
but I still see him whenever I pass
bicyclists on windy roads,
when I see men with wild hair spilling out
beneath helmets,
or maybe most haunting,
when I see them bald,
see them racing in a wheelchair
like they know the clock on the wall
is getting louder each day.
I am getting used to the lurch
in my stomach
every time I am sure
I see his face.