Little poem, you are too young to remember the smoking gun, the con man on TV who looked like a supervillain, or the hominid skeleton dug up in Africa and given the name of your childhood dog. You never heard a word about the IRA bombings, nor did The Texas Chainsaw Massacre terrorize your sleep. Having no use for money, you do not understand the concept of stagflation, nor did you marvel at the satellite images of Jupiter’s Great Red Spot. How much you have missed in the span of half a century! I want to swaddle you in yesterday’s headlines and send you back down the river, no wiser than the day you came blaring into the world.
At night, I leave all the lights on in my head.
This way, I know the dead can find me.
Sometimes they toss me their worldly trinkets:
the moon, wobbly as a child’s loose tooth,
a tuning fork, a spear of lightning for my song.
Like a magpie, I collect them.
I line my own death-nest
with the baubles of the dead.
Nothing, not even death, can harm me.