When the poet dies
his grandchildren may
only know him from
memory
someone who used to
hug them
tickle them
give them fresh
dollar bills on
their birthdays
someone to tell them
what his youth was like
when he lived it

Will they read his
poems and stories
his published works
now relegated to a
box languishing
somewhere in the heat
and dust of a storage
space
just stuff in a box marked
MISCELLANEOUS
a carton among many
cartons right behind
a half dozen hefty bags
pregnant with forms,
statements, bills, things
he never quite
got around to
shredding?

Maybe he should have
composed an opera
with the singers'
voices rising like
beautiful pink angels
in a heavenly choir,
a celebration where
the audience would stand up
and shout "BRAVO!" -
a sound so triumphant
so unique
even the gods
would bow
in reverence