Sitting at the counter of a
rest stop
someone once told me,
“A man knows where he is from
when he knows where he wants to be buried.”
And maybe married?
Parry the blow.
I know my spot already:
On this cliff’s deep green
Looking out to sea, to see
the curved horizon proving the world not flat,
with some sharp stones to dig into my back.
Sow my soul in some rugged red soil.
But patience, please.
I’d like more time.
Fifty, sixty, seventy years more.
Then I’ll take my
six foot box: a foot for every fifteen years.