What should I do with the rest of my life?

This sentence I’m writing could be the end,
or tomorrow in a car wreck on the bridge.

I have lived this long without cancer,
a heart attack, or the dead-end blues.

I’m not as brave as many others,
or as calm, or strong.

I didn’t give my sweet young life
to parachute into Budapest to rescue the Jews,

or sail the seas like Jacques Cousteau
to save the whales.

I rarely think about what I’ve done,
but I always wonder what I’ll do.

I hate to accept how small I am,
tiny enough to be swallowed by a drop of water

that I pretend is an ocean I’ll cross
on my next long distance swim.