How Much Time Is No Time? Poem by Ted Sheridan

Sitting at my old cluttered desk
A deep sadness eats away at me
I write some words down on a piece of paper
Saving them for later or maybe forever____
One can never know the value of such
For they have saved my life in the past
Whereby reflecting on some simple reverie I had scribbled
Committing jabble to paper first and later to serious thought
I was resurrected by the logic of the odds of my surviving further assults
Many the time.....over these past labored days and weeks
Have I... since the diagnosis of my body's disease
Inquired on a way of extinguishing my anquish and pain
Euthanasia greets my weaknesses as a friend might pull the plug
Always whispering a promise or offering of an overdose of drugs
Number Nine #9 Number Nine #9....The Beatles sang
But those words offer only an end.....never any answers
Sitting at my old cluttered desk
Writing my epigraph and will.....the phone rings.....with a shrill.....
A gentle voice says 'Hello. How are we today? '
And as irony would have it
I said 'Goodbye'