Drifting Into Autumn
It’s taken care of.
A friend of ours
who owns property by the Ohio river
has agreed to make use of her pontoon boat,
to take my ashes, to scatter them.
I have been working toward this, making plans,
arranging for loose connections to connect;
it’s what I want and imagined.
Now we are drifting over an Autumnal morning mist,
the craft, a handful of mourners, the low throb
of a 90 horse power outboard motor.
I like the thought
of 90 horses under my cardboard urn.
I like the way even Autumn can be arranged
with a little forward planning.
I envision the water churning, horses
plowing a way through the still stream,
the craft rocking gently, a limousine
full of spectral wide-eyed children,
some of them sketching elaborate blueprints
of the day after,
some plotting navigational calibrations
regarding, spread, speed and eventual dissolution
of burnt atoms into the smaze of
recycled fish food.
We are all sanguine, buoyant with hope and wonder.
I would pat myself on the back if I could.
My wife kisses my dark container,
everything is going just as it should,
I have taken great care developing this scene.
My widow has not had breakfast yet
and the air is a little chilly.
‘Now’, I declare, ‘better here than elsewhere
don’t let the plot drift away’.
The mist is lifting, soon the world
will reveal itself to be just shorelines
between one dream and another.
I need to be away,
vainglorious schedules must be met,
the script notarized.
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