One Day When I'm Dead

Poem By Werner Schmidt

Today or tomorrow or in fifty three years,
one hundred and thirteen days
seven hours and three minutes.
Yes, something with a three, please.

I want to
- be buried
in a triangular coffin in the ancient Namib desert.
- become
a drop in her inner rivers.
- merge
like ground coffee beans and scalding water.
- drift
to the bottom after a moment or two's doubt.
- weeee!
through the hourglass in Days of Our Lives' opening scene.

The triangular coffin means I won't have to lie on my back.
My wife says I snore then, but I won't believe her in all eternity.
I'll lie half on my stomach
my left knee pulled up into one corner
while my left elbow supports.
This will prevent rolling onto my stomach.
Stomach sleeping leads to stiff neck
as mourning dawns.
My right cheek should hug a sponge pillow
in a clean, ironed, summer pillow case
laced with lavender potpourri, please.

Insert my bite plate one last time.
I may need it on my journey.
Allow the earth to swallow me
while Thunderstruck booms through the desert air
followed by The Lonely Shepherd, something by Shahram Nazeri
and Joy, played on the Er-Hu. Bobby McFerrin is to conclude
with his Voicestra version of Psalm 23.
Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da, the encore, of course.

Silence, at last.

A thirty three thank yous, in anticipation, for arranging
an honorary fly-by by the descendants
of the 2015/16 Karoo thrushes of Leipoldt street.
Have them target the grave of the ornithologist
who first called them ordinary and gave them the same name
as a yeast infection.
I'm smiling - white-pooped sepulcher.

There is to me no greater majesty
than my brown-feathered sprites.
Like the desert wind, which
cheerfully and eerily cries over me
with ancient confetti rolling down its dunes.

Killing me softly, breath by grain.

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