Useless worries

In the end I'm actually afraid
that I'll die in the fall,
loosing an hour when I was born,
in the spring, I'd have time
enough to write the last chapter,
read the last one written,
and maybe play that game
with petals and flowers,
the one that magic eight balls
were meant to replace
so that the 20th century's need,
for every mess to be hidden
until it can be written, back
into existence in an op-ed
after it stales on the front
page, of this or that local rag
comes to bear fruit,
it either is or it isn't the case
when counting leap years
that the best ones are common place,
and I'm afraid that death'll come
between the fours, and I'll miss
yet another olympiad when we all
feel something like kings,
watch the critics make critics
of us all and that instant
expertise evolves us into tyrants
on the couch, I'm afraid
that there'll be dishes left to do
and that I'll still never have
owned a nice new car that purs,
like she might've been a brand
name, or else I've thought about,
spending way more than I had
the means beyond which I worry
about useless shit and wane each day,
that I've grown closer to knowing,
when exactly it is I'll die.