Smoke Rings

Late on a cold winter's night I sit here perplexed by old issues of life and death. It's not my age clinging to life so dear, determined to hold on to the last breath, I've never really cared how long I lived, I did vow once to live to 150. Nothing serious, nothing to be dreaded, seeing the future would just be nifty. I guess the problem is my great good luck, when those around me don't seem to have much. So many people with nary a buck, or sick and needing a miracle touch. I try to do things to make a difference, but seems like blowing smoke rings through a fence.