after a death march and dying in March,
or April or May or whenever.
don't bury me in summer sun;
scatter my bones in rain
along 88th street and 89th street,
but save a little for under a bench in Union Square.
And maybe save a sliver
of my heart for 4th street and Avenue A.
And make my friends drink my laughter
in old whiskey bottles
on stage at a Glorious Veins concert,
preferably at Arlene's Grocery.
My luck, I'll probably die on some October 26th
just to hold the joke of life, mine.