The Rest

An inward-curling shame

greets the idea as I rinse

dripping soap from my frame

I want people to cry 

when they hear I have died

no need for rending or gnashing

just quiet, resigned drops

falling on faces, hands

I think those tears will work

I towel between my 

toes, displeased with the hairs

and dust gathered on the

toilet’s shiny white base

I scrape away with fingers

and the towel’s edge, finished

with my ever-fading

body and bones.  I’ve given

so little cause for them, the

tears.I want them falling

as my little drop

rejoins the larger stream

When they come too, all the

weepers, I will still be

all wet, coursing the sea

of the tears of us all.