When I Am a Dead Poet

You will be right about me.
We could have been lovers
Because the gossip
Was true -- publicity
For my posthumous fame
Every accident of alliteration
Or pain inflicted on a page
Or person was a signal,
A symbol, a simile, each smile
To be deciphered by you
My lover, my scholar, my hero.

You will know me.
We would have quarreled
Over my wasted wheelbarrow
Of potential and my gift
For clumsy metaphor.
I played with blocks
Like a toddler, literally
And literarily leaving a legacy
Of spun sugar and sour dough,
Dear reader, dear fan, O beloved.

You will hold me open
In your hands, drifting
On the ocean of fashion
Unforeseen. Brilliant,
Some may say, Or horse shit, others.
I am dead and finally
Don’t care. What I’m trying to say;
Take this moment to marvel
At the mystery of your life,
My student, my critic, best friend.

C. Collins