They’re out there…waiting!
Some sense it more than some.
But, no surprise with waiting done,
As someday the news reports “I died.”
Oh, head crowned with laurels spun,
But no quarried stone on lonely sod
With cuts for passers-by to ponder-on.
Oh, the wait for “such-a-me” to be gone!
Any Day! Any Day! — He died! He died!
Then the little bit obits of Goodbye!–
Of that “do not go gentle” expected Any Day! —
Saying — “It’s ‘OK!’A long life had he!”
I say “Wait just a minute! Look at this Me O’My!
I’m not an age. I’m a personal quest!
More than able for the inevitable!
But still saddling-up my personal best!
EVERYDAY! EVERYDAY!………… ifffff….
Not shot, run down, or diseased with death —
My time’s still a lively gait to howsoever far the far.
So, the Waiters must just wait their wait —
To say “we’ll miss” and “passed-on!” —
Watching, as my gallop continues its passing-by;
Portents of passage casting a steady eye, reins in hand,
Shake of head held high of laurels spun:
Striding past where the Waiters stand,
With their bedazzled bedraggle behold,
Till the waiting’s done, this hold a told,
And my plunging hooves are gone.

[This poem embodies recalls of De La Mare’s THE LISTENERS and Yeat’s UNDER BEN BULBEN ( and both their horses): also a touch of Thomas’s DO NOT GO GENTLE. My poem the THE WAIT preceded this.]