By that time,
the body will be ashes,
the warm flesh having gone cold
then set ablaze
and buried in a box,
maybe under a live oak
or delivered to the hands of the wind—
such an unbendable process
may cause a shiver in the night.
But if you’ve made a mark,
your existence might continue
alphabetically
on a public shelf
or on display in a vitrine,
one visitor after another
peering down at your spectacles
or reading a letter with a misspelling
you once wrote to a gym teacher.
No wonder the little girl
whose father is lifting her up
looks disappointed
by a first edition next to your cane.
But what did she expect
inside the glassed-in case,
something living?
a pair of goldfish
circling in a shiny bowl?
Better hurry by, yourself,
maybe shuffle off to the hall of armor.
Seeing your own worn slippers
might just bring you to tears
if it’s possible for the dead
to cry, much less spend
an autumn afternoon
in a museum, invisible,
not even parting the air as they pass.