On the appointed day
I will gently place my just-emptied stein
on the dark old mahogany bar top, stained
with the faint glass rings
of a thousand drunken nights,
my thirst slaked for all time.
I will ignore my good friend Dylan’s
admonition to shake my fist defiantly
as the light dims, lest I upset the sweet serenity
of the songs that envelop me to the last.
The parting could never be sharp and bitter
if the last strains are John’s promise
that the beloved will ever dwell inside
the rhythm of breath
or Henry’s truth that nothing
is hurt or lost
or Robert Louis’ comfort in the sailor
being home from the sea.
Let these be the sounds
my departing spirit hears
Let the voices of poets push aside
the nothingness that may well await
for what is the gain when celestial choirs
sing the entry
if David’s Secret Chord and heaven’s finest lays
are already among us?
