Forget a jury of my peers,
I’d rather we planned for a
handful of peers—six or so—
to carry my coffin to the grave.
My grandfather could have gathered
a team of old woodsmen, children
of the Depression, their horses
tied up at the rail, big men
who talk slow and mean every word.
Eyeing the stand of timber at cemetery’s
edge, talking of boardfeet. A place
to bring in a sawmill. Men who knew
how to put an edge to a crosscut and
how to rig a spar tree. Dip some snoose.
Caulk boots so no one slips carrying the box.
My father could have counted on his
dairyman neighbors—Bud, Joe, Norbert
and Jim. The service held between milkings.
Sunburnt men talking corn this high,
hands in pockets in their dress clothes.
Tractor deaf and carrying the coffin,
swaying like cattle, single file.
For me I demand a scrum of poets,
easily found, I’m sure. I’ll provide
the drink as they flit and bother,
each composing a sonnet, a requiem.
Oh, dear death, ink like tears as
another book is compiled, each
lamentation treasured and sung.
Pity no one buys the volume,
despite rich imagery, slant rhyme,
semicolons galore. Argue what verse
is to be chiseled in my stone.
I don’t care.
I know I’ll never get planted, ever,
as a herd of poets, wailing and wan,
can never be coaxed to order.
Not made to work together, no,
not even for one of their kind.
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