Final Destination Poem by Sean Riley

Day after day I drive past a cemetery
vast and reticent
and see the orange sun carom off the marble stones
the scarlet roses stiff against the wind.

I often wonder what I'll be doing
that last sacred hour
before I sail into the night.

Will I be asleep?
Wondering aimlessly in my dreams
thousands of leagues beneath the depths of consciousness
having a picturesque fantasy
or some hellish nightmare.

Will it occur in public?
In the midst of a nice dinner
or as I stroll the city streets
people struggling to peer at my lifeless form.

Will it be when I'm alone?
In the middle of watching television
or reading a book
unsuspecting and unknowing.

My mind sifts through several possibilities
of how it could transpire
as I sit in the morning traffic.

I see these people rushing off to work
solemnly thinking about the days chores.
Each day seems to be a rerun
of the same dreadful routine.

We should be working to live,
not living to work.
We should always enjoy the moment we're in
after all we're each on a journey
to the same destination,
but who knows when we'll arrive.