I might want to grow my own garden
When I die,
With fluorescent orange pumpkins
Overflowing the fields, like jimmies on an ice cream cone.
I’d plant tomato seeds also.
Even though I hate tomatoes.
Everyone else seems to enjoy them.
The local rubies, some say.
I’d plant just a handful of corn kernels.
Their stalks popping their heads up high,
Sighting the elegant garden I’ve created.
There’s nothing more satisfying than buttering a cob,
So that it glistens in the light,
And chomping your teeth into it,
Letting the mixture tease your taste buds.
I might want to own a castle,
When I die.
A tall stereotypical castle.
The moat, the drawbridge,
And the silver knights with their pointy helmets.
They look like walking bullets.
I’d like a courtyard, the size of any ocean.
To grow that garden.
A hedge maze would accompany the garden,
Changing each day so no one ever mastered the pattern.
I’d like a princess, too.
A dazzling, curly as can be brown haired,
Coffee that sometimes looks like honey yellow, eyed,
Slim as the letter “I”, but with chubby, plush cheeks,
Ever so smiling girl,
I might want to do all the things I never had the chance to do,
When I die.
I’d like to play football,
But nothing fancy.
I’ll take a couple of my friends
And a fresh pigskin to wear out.
We’ll play until we’re tired,
Then we’d sip iced tea with a spoonful of honey.
Or maybe I’d travel.
To the site of the sunken Titanic,
And watch the oceanic life seeking shelter from brutal sharks.
I’d take pictures with my underwater sea camera,
Dressed in my swim shorts,
And breaststroke my way back to the surface afterwards.
Maybe I’d travel to the Bermuda Triangle,
And discover what really happens to anything that enters.
I’d end up discovering a giant Kraken,
Snatching ships and planes with its mammoth tentacles,
I’d be swallowed down into the monster’s belly,
But I’d work my way,
Like a mountain climber,
Up the beast and into his brain.
I’d tell him, “The food is more fruitful on the coasts of Mozambique.”
A trap it would be, and we’d capture the Kraken,
And donate it to a zoo.
Maybe I’d travel to the moon,
And place my own flag next to the American one.
I’d jump high in the air, and fall like a feather,
I’d enjoy soaking in the experience.
Maybe with all of this knowledge I’d write a story.
A long novel,
A Pulitzer Prize winner.
It would be about my turmoil and success.
Everyone would own my book,
Eventually replacing the bible.
I know better than this, that
The pearly gates should be added to Mother Goose’s comical fairy tales.
Because I know,
Whether I like it or not
I must accept that,
Death is the conclusion.