the prayer cards they give you at wakes 
pile up near the stack of mail that there’s
no point in opening – you’re 90, quit
paying the bills, quit every damn thing
you don’t want to be doing with the time
you have left. you’ve had enough
worry over money and people and time,
you’ve iced bruises and wiped tears
and shit, thanking god for every 
thankless minute before your celebration.
your heart’s been broken, but you’ve
known all the greatest kinds of love,
and there’s a luckiness there that so
few people have the chance to taste at all.

One of my 100 word poems inspired by the indomitable Carol G who is 90 but I bet will see 100.