Hope is the Last to Go

I hope I don't die an unknown poet
On a cold day in a room with no heat
Surrounded by journals filled with pages
And pages of poetry.
I hope the refrigerator won't be bare
Except for some moldy cheese--
Perhaps a Camembert,
And that two cats won't sit meowing by an empty feed
And the air won't smell like their piss.
I hope the mailbox isn't stuffed with bills
And letters from the IRS.
I hope I don't lay, all skin and bones,
In a stiff and musty bed,
A bottle of cheap wine, or perhaps
A vile of morphine beside my head.
I hope I won't be reciting my poetry aloud,
Causing the neighbor to pound on the wall
And shout, "Why can't you just be dead?"
And I hope as I go I won't think to myself,
In a hundred years I may be famous,
And laugh at myself as I catch the fact
That hope is the last to go.