When I counted the days that have passed since we died,
I cringed at the total and knew its full sum—
How the probability of further addition left me numb!
I checked my method, all the ways that I'd tried
To derive a solution, but—though sure it lied—
I confirmed my answer, not even a crumb
Of doubt remained, the truth would come:
Ruthlessly revealed by my calculation, the fact that I'd
Less when I finished than when I'd started
To add! Death surely should be a finite number,
Not an endless series nor this infinite regression
On a living slate to be thus recorded and charted.
Each day at this problem produces a fulsome slumber,
Making nights a test—additional days, a grim concession.