It's What They Want
I’m a walking time vault
for my own mistakes.
Everyone who’s ever
said they loved me
act as my curators.
They don’t even
have to maintain an archive.
I’m the stain on my
own tie acquired minutes
before the camera rolls.
My legacy the mismatched
Legos I designed well
beyond the recommended age.
that proved the futility
to pursue engineering
or design as careers.
The photo with my
balding hair set in
reverse cowlick mode
(you know the one)
is set to adorn my coffin
and will be the only one
they do not bury.
Photos of graduation,
yearbook photos
censored for showing
too much success
fused from heat
behind the pics
of me on the potty.
My engraved epitaph
will be selected from the
IM’s to online dates
we’d agreed to delete.
I wouldn’t’ have a say
in what is preserved
after I die. Why should I
while I’m still alive?
The artists who have
resolved to break type
by not sleeping with me
have already painted
my lasting impression:
A spill of grease and oil
from a almost into-the-river
banged up Crown Victoria
polite enough to not
have happened in the road.
Naive ongoers thankful
to have seen such a mess
in the open enough
so they can make a wide arc.
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