Poem about n i p

 Already half the May gone, 

not so far from resolution–

for four months isn't far. 

Six decades long habit

has grown old in the body, 

touched ground, turned soft. 

I have been practicing reclination. 

supine, for when they box me in

the corpse mustn't revolt. 

Nothing to be done now

of all those procrastinations. 

You are gone; they, as good as gone!