New poem: If I Die

If I Die

If I die of boredom,
let me lay in plain, brown dirt.
No stone, no box, no flowers.
Just earth and me,
worms and water,
roots and rocks.
Naked, prostrate, hands at sides.
Ten feet deep, please.

If I die of thirst,
bury me inside a tree,
sealed in scratchy bark.
Upside down, toes pointed up
toward Mosquito Moon.
Eyes sealed with moss.
A willow, maybe. I’m too far
removed from royalty for oak.

If I never die,
plant me in a chair. My old,
soft La-Z-Boy. Or the leather couch
we first made out on. The one
that palms your ass
like a catcher’s mitt.
Facing East.
Towards the rising sun
network.