Day after Tomorrow
Day after Tomorrow
Someone asked me the other day
buttering me up, I spoze
if I would like to be remembered …
Without thinking much I said no.
Like maybe I’m a buddhist zen priest
or something.
No? this somebody asked. No?
Who no’s?!! The days roll off the calendar
making a noise like wind through the firs, which, when I think about it,
is a bad metaphor. The wind’s coming back.
We don’t even have kids, fer chrissake. The woods
beyond the garden sits cat silent. And waits. Long
after I’m gone, maybe the firs’ll remember.
Maybe the wind is just a memory. Or just the wind without the fir.