Under an aged avocado tree San Francisco light

floods sun-warmed panes of hand-blown glass,

garlands of orange and pink blossoms hover

fluttering in a soft sea breeze.

“Sleepers- Awake” greets yawning breakfast guests.

The Chronicle snarls the world is still a terrible place.

A burly gent with a fiery-red handlebar

moustache looks like he arrived from

Ubekestan or Kazakhstan but turns out

to be a landesman from Sioux-City.

He’s here to get another laser blast

to carcinosarcomas lodged in lungs,

virulent amanita.

He knows death to the bone

With a prognostic date of four years

to his demise the glow in his sapient eyes

tells a story of the glory of being alive,

passionately describing his distraction,

restoring vintage Austin Healeys,

Jaguars and Land Rovers.

Would I be as elated as my breakfast

mate if I had a definite date of departure?

I’d settle for a life well lived before plunging

into the celestial light of non-existence

hoping when I vanish into nothingness

my shadow will lurk in the corners

of dreams and memories leaving a laugh

or two locked firmly in the heart.