Up with the sun;
to bed with the chickens.
Days rush by,
Calendar quickens.
I’m sitting around,
getting older than dirt.
I can’t write this poem
because I don’t work.
My ‘profession’ you ask,
is it not ‘God is Good’?
He provides all I need,
I could want, ever would.
And when at close of my tombstone date,
I won’t say goodbye; I’ll just walk through the gate.