My 50 year-old friends are impolite.
They discuss my life within earshot,
as if I wasn’t there.
Sooner or later,
I won’t be.
I’m happy to hear them
rehearse my biography.
I listen, a eulogy of sorts,
the good, the bad, the ugly,
characteristics, habits, hobbies,
traits liked; traits disliked.
So, this is who they think I am.
When I am gone, that’s who I’ll be,
in the eternity of fading memory.