By Charika Swanepoel
When you're spread out upon the table
It’s never a sad montage of the good and bad gone by but a very,
very unclimactic angst. You look the anaesthesiologist up and down,
and think, “my god, this man probably does his own ironing.”
You worry that he’s too precise, too careful, and life too volatile.
He’ll be calculating and pinpointing but you’ll still be dying
flat on your back, no catchy last words or quick confidence
but a voluntary check out for no good reason at all.