“Moose. Indian.”

–The last words of Henry David Thoreau

Why not “It’s been a good life.
I sucked out lots of marrow”?

Why not “The cabin was cold,
but I got a book out of it”? Or

how about “Wolf. Settler.”
“Honeybee. Loner.” Or “Why

all those beans?” Or “My god,
I kept track of everything except

my own pencil!” When my time
comes, I wonder what I’ll say.

“I loved you and I’m sorry”?
“I was one surrounded by luck”?

I’ll likely lie there, eyes searching
into the air, and chirp, “Chocolate.

Tallahassee.” Or “Kitty cat. Real
estate assessor.” “Moose. Indian.”

Poor Emerson.
He was always so above it all.