Just when he thought he had it made

he kept hearing a muzzled voice

coming from a world of mysteriums

and shadows in the middle of the night:

“The end is near, the end is near.”

Since mother advised “health is wealth”

he figured he was a man of means

as he hopped, skipped and jumped

right by his eighth decade without

ever wearing a hospital gown.

One night as he strained to hear the voice

gurgling murmurings amidst sounds

of splashing water, he was sure

it was his bombastic little brother calling:

“Mouse, come on in the water is warm,

seventy two all day long,” just like he used

to yell plunging into the surf at Old Orchard Beach.

A navy vet, buried at sea, he wished to swim

in the swill and swell of the waves and must have swam

to the Grotta Lazzurra where he honeymooned

on the Isle of Capri.

He had raved the cavern was like no other place,

a splendiferous enclave brimming with white calcite

on flowstones and stalagmites in a transparent azure

blueness of brine.

A shimmering silver of light illuminated

emerald marine algaes and kelp

adorning the ceiling and jagged rock walls.

From now on he vowed to keep his wet suit

and snorkel at his side, a heart-beat away for that

holiest dive, tumbling into that turquoise pool to swim

with his brother again, where he’d rapturously greet him:

“Hello, hello, hello, I’m here at last to join you!”