Elegy for a Future Death

Elegy for a Future Death 

When you're gone, you won't want anything.
Not the dragging chain on concrete,
Not the cooling pan on the stove,
Not the bleach-stiff towel blowing down the beach.
Nothing.

Let others worry about the signs, 
the drag of errands, 
the noise-
leave it.
Miss nothing.

Go.
Do not return.
Let the dust widen, 
the nail rust 
in the plank.