Eighty-Nine

Eighty-nine is more or less content;
In love and labor lucky, more or less.
Given the loss of his long-tended wife,
Having made himself another life,
The final sum, he thinks, is happiness.
Yet all he sees ahead is a descent.
Nor does he see the need for his consent:
In death he finds the ultimate duress.
Nothingness awaits him like a knife,
Even as he keeps his anger pent.