Traveling
when i die
i just want
my wife
to dump
my tired
bones
right on
the porch
none of
that fancy
schmanzy
futile
funeral
nonsense
where every
one goes
around
the room
sharing
their true blue
experiences
& bullshit
stories
& excuses
& anecdotes
just wanting
to hear their
own voices
in warhol’s
15 minutes
of fame
perhaps
even leave
me with
the house
plants
& cactuses
during
the rainy
season
forgetting
i'm out there
& wondering
what to do
with me
leaving me
all coiled-up
like a bullet-
ridden dillinger
or billy the kid
when they’re
sweeping
in & out the
screen doors
scraping burgers
off the grill & finally
figure what i really
would have preferred
loading me up in my
duffel bag where i took
all my travels & unravel
& let me go down that river
(perhaps even with some left
over sand & maps & guide books)
which flows past the capitol
& gorgeous ghetto & dairy
cream all the way into
the deep green mountains
up into north country
separates the hudson
& lake champlain
& the adirondacks
& montreal city
& st. lawerence
& quebec city
just take a job where
i can work minimum wage
& get consistent hours
working behind the
postcard carousel
where the pilgrims
in top hats & tails
used to travel.
Joseph Reich is a social worker who lives with his wife and
twelve year old son in the high-up mountains of Vermont .
He has been published in a wide variety of eclectic literary journals
both here and abroad, been nominated six times for The Pushcart Prize, and his books in poetry and cultural studies include offerings in Skive Magazine Press, Flutter Press, Brick Road Poetry Press, and others.