Funny how at the beginning
You can find an end,
Shining like recycled gold
Or the afterbirth
Of something long, strenuous,
And possibly inadvisable.

When you find the end,
You can place it with great delicateness
On your finger.
It may fit there, snugly,
Sparkling into the eyes of those
Willing to see.

I lived the end.
Once, when I was thirty-one,
Just one year after getting married
And earning a masterful degree.
But those things, too, ended,
And hospital beds grew cold.

A bang or a whimper?
Fire or ice?
Slouching or sprinting with
Obscene alacrity?
Or perhaps with gentle, escalating doses of
Prozac and novelty?