Cemetery Blues

When this black goes gray and the wornmost threads drift like fallen hair, I will yet be waiting. Marble eyes turned inward, incisive nails, brittle bones. One last scribble in my pocket. A note to myself, Mind eternity, let out the cat.

Puzzled toes, seeking resolution. I should have asked for shoes. I should have been explicit. I should have said a dozen things, rather than conform.

Stand me up, give me a scepter,
put a ripe orange in my hand,
crown me with pungent herbs,
face me toward the window.

Let other cakes melt in the rain, I demand one last train ride. Good-bye, my friends,
you look surprised. See you at the funeral.

Forgive me if I babble. So many years, you see. So many wars and worries. And these nagging roots inside my sleeves. Cypress, I believe. Oh, well. Better than most, as good as any.

When you take me down
to the burying ground,
see that my grave is kept clean.

I need some new guitar strings, and a harmonica or two.
This song is longer than you can know. Longer than you can know.

January 12, 2006

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