8 – One Last Accounting

Here, at the end of Sam Wittgenstein’s life
Surrounded by grandchildren, children and wife
He comforts his family, then he converses
With his tender, latest of the hospital’s nurses

As she goes about all her medical tasks
She asks him what many have previously asked
He answers the question, remarkably patient:
“Ludwig? Alas, miss, he’s not my relation.”

“Though one has to wonder,” he says, deftly winking
“If I couldn’t match that man in deeper thinking
“I’ll say, and it isn’t that self-aggrandizing,
“But I’ve done some marvelous philosophizing”

“Consider, young man, that for each day you live
“You give life away – though to whom you might give
“I can’t rightly say – maybe God, maybe Gaia
“I’ll give my last soon, I’m about to expire.”

“And the closer folks get to their ultimate slumber
“The more they obsess over life’s shrinking numbers”
His laughter spurts out – it’s a broken-pump fountain
“Trust me,” he says, “I’m a lifelong accountant”

“The customs of living, how timely the dues
“Refuse the collector? But no, what’s the use?
“Be grateful” – he smiles up at his better half
“For soulmates and good kids, and hospital staff!”

Sam praises the doctors’ fine medical praxis
Then enters a spirit of full ataraxis
So speaks his last, ‘fore his breath relaxes:
“Nothing is certain but death – and taxes.”