Let me go Lord.
Save my memories in an old
coffee can. Tie it with string.
Give my bed to a homeless
woman who hasn't reached
the turning.

Take the white out of my hair,
and take my blue eyes too.
I have seen pain's
kaleidoscope. And
I was afraid.

Return what tenderness
survives to the flowers
lest I wilt them with
careless whispers.

Take me out of church
before the offertory.

Scatter the ashes of
a life sorely led on the
edge of the pond where
memories, like
sargassum, trap me.

Bring to me a dram of
whiskey.  Mix it with
the remains of my
life's last call.

Time Gentlemen.

My song is done.
Let me go Lord.
I am an image
wrapped in
Saturday.
.


Caroline Shank