an acquaintance, a well known poet,
has suggested that upon his death
he be stuffed and mounted and displayed
for those who wish to pay him homage
which might be viewed as pompous
or obsequious, or downright crude,
but its his funeral, I guess. As for me,
the instant that my hand no longer
grasps a pen in futile desperation,
the very instant, mind you,
that my eyes no longer
weep for joy or sorrow or sentimental
movies, place me in the driver's seat
of whatever beaten-up old wreck
I happen to be driving, load the trunk
with dynamite and fireworks (you'll find
the carton neatly tucked away beneath
twelve refrigerator boxes loaded with
rejection slips, failed poetry, and
other testaments to stubborn disbelief
I had no talent), and tow me and
the steel mausoleum to the nearest
quarry. Wait until the sun has
blessed me with one final sunset
light the fuse and run quickly
to a vantage point where you can
witness to the world that I departed
as I lived, driving through the night
in search of fame and glory and
finding only flashes of the light
fading quickly in the distance.

© 1990 Frederick E. Smith