Howard Firkin
(The organ donation sonnet)
One day, the old car simply never starts.
The engine turns, perhaps, but doesn’t fire.
Exhaustless, it’s elected to retire
from being car to being spare car parts.
I, too, have signed the organ donor card.
I wait for my election to the host
when body parts of mine that won’t be missed
are sewn into whoever’s on the list.
I only hope who gets them needs them most
because no parts of mine were worked too hard.

I’d like to leave you something, too. What’s there
that might help you to carry on when I’m
harp-strumming/roasting, long past earthly care?
The time we spent and wasted. Keep that time.