Expiration Date

           Lately, as I ramble, giving thanks I’m not dead

I start to think about staples, such as butter, milk and bread

           And how, like those products, I have an expiration date

But theirs is stamped upon the package, and mine is left to fate

           Someone who is in the know

Has decided the time for fragile food to go

           While I am left to wonder how and when and where

Which, when I think about it, doesn’t seem quite fair

           Wouldn’t it be better to be certain of my last dance?