-poem in waiting-

if I last longer than my friends,

if I outlive them and i’m not too old
to tap the keys as if speaking, ‘tho silently,
to those who stop by on occasion,

those who ran fast between

the base-pads, those who were
uncontrollable, unruly,— the back-row nuisances,  

those more reverent than i, sticking it out

for the long-haul, the ones with cars not

belonging to their fathers, the smarter, the lazier,

the fatter, the ones living in actual houses, split-

levels and ranches with picture windows looking

out over anything there was out there to be considered

a view,— 
those who looked over the park, the gas station

and the tenements where the girls
took-up residence with their grandmothers,

making them seem more approachable,—

those who’ve killed themselves off,

those with good careers raking-in the good bucks,
with the good wives with meaty legs,— those who

were paid by the month,..the month! who ever heard

of such a thing,— all of them, if i outlive them,—

I’ll dig them up regardless of respect for the dead,

dig them up improperly, impatiently, rudely if need-be,

interrupting their rest, shaking and rattling their bones

singing our song to them, dancing again,—
through the harshness of first cigarettes, the first beers,
first kisses, first embraces as if they meant something
beyond death,— 
gathering in my arms, if i outlive them,

those things that were revelatory, things disregarded

as we grew old apart from each other, old and tired,
sick and surrendering —  and for chrissake, wake up!
wake-up! i'd sing if i came to outlive them.
wake the fuck up! i’d be singing.