Thinking of Death

Whimsical and lively,
With arms out-stretched
Into a mock Boeing,
I weave my way
Up to God’s throne.

Skidding to a stop,
I childishly peer up at God.
“God, can I die?” I ask,
Trying not to appear overly eager.

Amid sighs of frustration
And groans of irritation,
God folds the morning paper
And glares down at my upturned face.
“Jeremy, I have told you a million times:
Your time to die is not now!” he states.

“But I want certainty!
I want to know everything,”
I whine in exasperation.

“NO!” God replies
In all his fatherly wisdom.
“Go to your life
and do not come out until I say.”

But I do not want to
Go back to Genesis
Or Woolf
Or Pollock
Or Bach
Or “Finding Nemo.”

I stamp my foot impatiently.
“Why can’t I die?
Everyone else is doing it!”