Friday poem

I'm posting an original poem almost every Friday for a year. This is 29/52. A few thoughts, from the afterlife, on donating my body to science.

Disclaimer

Dear University:

I know I signed the papers promising this body to you,

for the advancement of science,

upon my demise. However, my conscience is bothering me.

There are some things you should know,

although I'm sure there's more you'll surmise

once the cutting starts and I become less than the sum of my parts. In short, you're not getting what you bargained for.

Let me synopsize: First, the knees were never great to begin with.

My football career lasted two and a half seasons,

till one gave way--no surprise.

No one will be wanting that one (the left). Too, that long childhood fever they say

weakened my heart. (Is that what did me in? I remember nothing after that last sunrise.)

Then there was snakebite, and pneumonia,

and one glorious fall from the attic--for an instant, I could fly! Two car crashes, a bike wreck, a few rashes never diagnosed.

Three times anesthetized.

The lungs could be better; I tried to quit, really I did, and thought if I just stayed fit and exercised

I'd never be delivered to you. We'll all live forever, right? You can sympathize. But near the end, my hands were swollen and both eyes compromised,

my gait unsteady. (Did I die in a fall? Was I hospitalized?) I had a desk job;

for my spine, once a marvel of engineering, I apologize. But still, I'm ready, if you still want me, with the above provisos,

and await your reply. Please advise.