My Obituary Will Read...

Photo:  No mail today.    David Graham

Today I give you another poem by John Ingemann.

My Obituary will read…

He’s dead, as a dusty untouched bicycle

locked away in the cellar of his house

with its FOR SALE sign in the lawn

near the curb, where his wife sits

waiting for drive-by condolences

or cheerful waves from neighbors

who haven’t read the paper yet,

which waits on the stoop,

wrapped in plastic and news,

the front-page on current economics,

politics, Section B6 for the cryptic

crossword across from Myrtle and me,

elderly features, grayscale smiles,

a crooked family tree, “deceased before their time”

a luxury notifying my younger coworkers

of advancement opportunities,

my neighbor, Carl, pondering

“Can I still borrow his tools,

occasionally?”

which is silly,

since Carl still has most of them

anyways.

And again, a wife on the curb,

paper in hand, thumb over my picture

smearing the ink, blurring my cheeks

and closed lips together.

Coming down a staircase of breeze

I’ll crouch next to front lawn mourner,

an invisible arm around the shoulders of the

red-eyed and teary, waiting patiently

for the mail on a Sunday

which, I suppose, is better than waiting

for me, digging up out from my grave

dirt on my suit, in my hair and fingernails,

beginning to walk home as if I was late for dinner

after the longest day of my life.

--John Ingemann