In the hopes of my last year, again

Now being more sure, with hickory roots,
that this coming year will be my last
I partition the ceiling vent with small dog collars
and coffee shops, all on a waitlist
for you, and your maladroit invitation
to stay alive, claiming a reason to be here
you do not own the ceiling,
and you do not own your own orifices, smoldering

God also wants me to live,
but God does not get to decide my fate
unless She/He/They wants to help
and get my flying bird circle over with
hopefully on a morphine drip
listening to Paul Simon
until that final sleep
transitioning on
to what else is out there