I passed him in the street and
hardly stopping, said I'd be in touch
and, knock on if you're passing,
if I'm in I won't be doing much.
You're always on your way somewhere,
he said. I said: I am. I'm about half way
between my coffin and my pram.
He laughed, and said; Half way?
I said; Half way, or thereabouts.
Good luck...he said, his arching brow
revealing some unspoken doubts.
I know, I said; I'm well aware
I may not see tomorrow but
with luck, on my centenary
I'll have a splendid cake to cut.