A Selfish Wish

I attended the funeral of a friend yesterday.
“Too young, too young-- He was just fifty-one.”
buzzed voices like provoked bees,
a stick thrust into the respectful line,
the hive of sorry; the large crowd.

“At what age will I go?”

Hopefully, only a few will attend mine, 
many years from now.  

A plain room with steel chairs,
a foggy light, a few drooping flowers,
a guest book with a few scrawled names,
a lone fly buzzing the dim.
Because I had lived so long,
most friends had passed,
hardly anyone there.

A woman conducted.
I could see the sad masks
of my aging children.

A strange pleasure rose in me.
I felt grateful to be so alone.

Published in Verse Wrights