Not a suicide poem

I don't so much fantasize
about ways to kill myself
it's more imagining
what would happen after
an accidental death
who would begin to wonder
why I wasn't showing up
how my lover would look
upon being told
the general shock
and people wondering
what they had missed

certainly a good dose of
always worse when
reminded of mortality -
it could have been me
wish the whole thing
would just go away...

maybe they would think 
they should have been nicer
when I was around
given in to my
little eccentricities
championed my causes --
or maybe they'll be glad
to see me go
such a pain in the ass
finicky bastard

I imagine the hush
at my funeral
as each remembers:
the scientist
or perhaps the mystic
poet, dancer, musician
card-player, philosopher
crazy fool --
each of them sits silent
and misses or kisses goodbye
their own version of me

but I am not ready
to leave them with
only their imaginings:
I have lunatic poems left to write
and stupid dog tricks to learn
games to triumph in
all these dishes to be done
and still so much cool breeze
blowing through the grass