Two logs to make a fire burn,
one real, one fake,
for we have learned
that’s all an evening fire takes.
I sit and contemplate my fate,
prepare to read a bit of Yeats
but he soon robs my throat of words
and makes the world seem more absurd.
With sharp intake of startled breath
that presses down upon my lungs
I read of an untimely death,
a tale of one who died too young.
Let this be said, let this be done–
that I should die before my sons.
Let me to my grave first be called
Let them grow older, grey or bald.