I think the day they
Lay me to rest a soft knock
Will awake me from my slumber.
And a certain sir will open the plank from underneath
My crumbling coffin, and lead me to the
hideout where all the deceased poets reside.
I know Emily will be reciting her poems in the underground
Campfire smoke.
Maybe Whitman will be writing a rhyme whilst creepily admiring
Each person’s skin.
Hopefully Sylvia would have been recovered from her sadness,
And toast some s’mores for each of us.
Langston will sing a song of freedom.
And Maya will be fixing each of our hairs –
With abundant care.
Maybe, just maybe,
Shakespeare will be there.
But the thought that may well daunt me -
Is what I’d be doing there?