Living Forever
By David Allen
I'm going to live forever.
All I have to do is never
take out the trash.
Sound Weird?
Well, I have it on good authority.
One drunken night in New Orleans,
lost and staggering through
forgotten alleyways,
my friend and I came upon
a palm reader who charged
two bucks to tell my future.
“Well, here’s two bucks for you and…”
“Five for the room?” she asked, smirking.
I was stunned. “How did you know that
was a line in one of my poems?”
“I’m a seer,” she said. “Give me a hand.”
She slowly traced the lines in my palm.
“You’ll live to the ripe old age of 91,” she said.
Really? Wow, I thought. I had seven more decades
of rollicking, wild fun ahead of me.
She released my hand and I gave her a tip.
As I turned to leave and find a bar to celebrate,
I heard her wildly cackling behind me.
“It's then you’ll trip and hit your head
on concrete stairs while taking out the trash!”
Well, the Grim Reaper will have to wait.
I swore right then to never take out the trash.
That was decades ago.
Now, excuse me, a film crew
from a television show
about hoarding is coming over.
Type Dancing 