DEATH Poem: Over/Under, by Alan Keith

My brother asks,
over or under
four-and-a-half?

I’d put it at two-point-five, I say. See his limp?

It ain’t the limp,
I’m reminded,
but the cough that’ll kill him.

We end up seeing Dad many more times
than either could imagine,
both blown away by his
persistent resilience as he clung
to life like the
hardened bastard he was.

Stubbornly, he’d call,
leave voicemails,
have neighbors do that
fancy text-message-thing
from both their phone and his
with increasingly angry and desperate
demands and threats.

Birthdays and Christmas;
when had more been necessary?

Only now, now that the specific
type of woman he can charm
has gone extinct;
now that the long days at bars
really will kill him;
only now does he subway a couple hours
for a surprise visit.

Well now it’s my turn;
now I’ve beers to drink, weed to smoke,
women to fuck, fights to win and lose,
lives to ruin and
a whole bunch of other shit you’ll never be privy to,
and so with that,
even knowing you’re a durable, unyielding bastard,
I’ll still take the under on the two-point-five line,
parlay that with a suicide and
the Raptors finally snapping
their losing streak