Though I'm writing it on All Saint's Day, and I probably ought to be feeling the weight of my ancestors and their practices and hieing my arse out to the cemetery to clean and straighten and neaten up around the quiet stones I'm not and have been wandering the back yard with my camera trying to photograph the wrens that were about.
One day, in winter or in spring
the sun is going to rise
but I'm not.
Everyone else is going to get up,
start their morning. The birds
are going to sing and the people
will stir themselves to their jobs.
I won't be stirring with you.
It's not a horrible thought
at least not all the time.
I know there's nowhere but here,
nowhere to take me in when
at last I shuffle off this mortal
(and tattooed) coil.
That's okay. This is my Heaven.
This is my Hell.
It's gonna happen.
There's no getting around it.
I can't dodge the metaphorical (?) bullet.
Not sure I want to, honestly.
I'm not ready, mind you.
Not by a long shot.
Just...accepting, a little bit.
So come Hallo'een,
when you're out with the kids
or the grandkids
Or if you're sitting at home
watching the little ghouls and
and the Disney princesses
roam up and down the streets
Pause a moment, look up at the
cold black bare limbs holding
the Moon in the sky and smile.
And while you're at it, haul your ass
out to the cemetery and brush
the bird crap off my tombstone, what's
wrong with kids today?
Here, how about a few Carolina Wrens from my yard?