
When I’m Gone Copyright © 2009 Rob Lock
No poems at my funeral, please, saying
I’m not really dead: once upon a time
that thought could worry me a lot. I trust
I’ll be content to turn to dust when heart…
and breath… have stopped… (As surely as ours
must one day? May that day be long delayed.)
In leaving, though, I am bequeathing
my afterlife to you. No need for statues,
candles, prayers - but keep me please
in credit on the balance sheet of stories
told: three fond for every two of foolish
or pig-headed, say. Then, when the last of you
has stumbled through the one way door, I will
be done. Just as my dying means full time
for someone else, who’ll now go unremarked
for good - though who that is I could not say.
We slip so softly into the unknown.