future plans

you scribble on the back of an envelope
your bills.
what you need to survive on.
it might be cheaper in florida.
but you don't like snakes
or lizards, or oatmeal.
you still have teeth and can walk.
you could live out your final days
in a nice hotel perhaps.
four star with room service.
cable tv and a pool. a pool
would be nice. people would know
you at the bar, in the lobby.
they'd tip their hats at you,
calling you by name
as you slipped a dollar or two
into their outstretched hands.
or maybe a cruise ship, sail on
until the end. point out at the sun
setting, the sun rising,
look up every night into
the cluster of stars,
the unencumbered moon. or perhaps
you could buy a Winnebago
and drive across country,
eat food in every small
town you stumble upon, telling
people who are and where you
are from. you could learn
their customs, use words
like howdy when you needed to.
or maybe you could stay put
and shovel snow, stay close to you.