Box me on a warm bright day, (youthful, never again useful), hands, crossed over shirt and tie. Let me hear young things on the grass plan parties, raves, getaways with only legal, ethical narcotics. Booze.
Indulge me in their rites of coquetry and intrigue, tasty gossip, thunder-bump-bass sex-beat tunes and doomed dreams. Let them be ignorant of doom and miffed by the garish universe of sleep.
Grant me peace in my last and only suit. Close the plain pine lid and lower me by crane.
Let them be curious, perhaps, almost, fearful…
Gather them over me to wonder: why consider “future” after all?
Let it – all of it – be alien to them, distant as violence, truth, sorrow. Let nothing be heavy the sky so clear.
Leave them to savor aromas of Spring and skin, befuddle them with magic, music, pheromones and beer; celebration of lips and hair; lusty minds a-flirt with promises –
I’m done with all that. I wish them well.