Death, knock me on the head till I’m dead.

[busker]

Death, knock me on the head till I’m dead.

When it’s time to die
I want it to be a surprise,
within reason. 
Packing bags for a sales summit in Kansas City 
in conference season.
Waiting for a new show to air
on the drug dealer’s debonair
enforcer. Beware!
I still have in me,
a stomach for rejection,
celebration, public oration,
unless I’m knocked on the head.

Death, knock me on the head
with a (fill in the blank) till I’m dead.

There’s too much left to be said,
for one life to bear.
Too many books in the library,
floorboards in disrepair
that nobody’s walked in years. 
I sit down to pray
and tumble down the stairs.
There’s a gash in my temple and I’m dead.
And tourists hunt like vampire bats
for that souvenir spot of red.

Death, knock me on the head
with a (fill in the blank) instead

[dukealien]

"Hammer," I think.  Reminded me of the Roman Dis Pater who whacked the dead soundly with a large hammer to be sure they were dead, perhaps after Charun the Etruscan death god (or psychopomp ) who conducted the dead on their way after applying the mallet.  He may be observed leaning on the head of his hammer, the handle of which is long enough to facilitate this pose.  Also for leverage.  (Yes, always on the head - bridge of the nose, if I recall correctly.  By one report the ceremony seems to have survived to nearly the present day in verifying death of the Pontifex Maximus - that is, the Pope, so they can get on with the business of the white and black smoke.)

So, yeah, hammer.

Your poem is a nice evocation of the "so much left to do" that one feels as the number of likely years ahead diminishes from double digits to... Ghosts appear to feel it, too, in a sort of reverse way, seeking to do (or get someone living to do) what they failed to accomplish in life.  Often, as with Hamlet's dad, revenge.

Good one.

Death, knock me on the head till I’m dead.

When it’s time to die
I want it to be a surprise,
within reason. 
Packing bags for a sales summit in Kansas City 
in conference season.
Waiting for a new show to air
on the drug dealer’s debonair
enforcer. Beware!
I still have in me,
a stomach for rejection,
celebration, public oration,
unless I’m knocked on the head.

Death, knock me on the head
with a (fill in the blank) till I’m dead.

There’s too much left to be said,
for one life to bear.
Too many books in the library,
floorboards in disrepair
that nobody’s walked in years. 
I sit down to pray
and tumble down the stairs.
There’s a gash in my temple and I’m dead.
And tourists hunt like vampire bats
for that souvenir spot of red.

Death, knock me on the head
with a (fill in the blank) instead