My Grave
It’s dark down in this box in this hole.
Can’t seem to get enough light or air.
But I don’t need either, I am dead. Dead to me,
to my friends, to the world. I do wonder what they
are saying about me, I really don’t want to know.
I’m sure some good, some bad. Maybe I was helpful,
maybe I had a temper.
I guess you are supposed to ask forgiveness
of all those you have wronged, my bones will have become
fossils before I reach the end of that list.
So I will make a blanket statement: I am sorry to all those
I have offended. That might keep me out of Hell
but I had so many good intentions, I am afraid my road
is already paved.
It’s quiet down here and I like that,
time to listen to the worms converting clay into good soil,
listen to 17 year cicadas grow in their exoskeletons.
I wonder if my soul will rise from this dead body to float
among stars. Perhaps then I will live again to hear wind
in the trees, birds calling from their perch.
The Piker Press
2024
