Retitled Lullaby

St Peter at the gate, saying No No No,

really starts to wear thin.

Now, let’s get this straight:  heaven does not 

exist, but if it does, I want in.

Unless I’m going to be reincarnated

as something cool like a panda,

or illuminating like civil unrest protest,

or smart like a spring bonnet,

or useful like an apostrophe,

or deciduous like spun honey,

or perennial like a nightmare,

or tall like a lighthouse,

or annoying like a lilac,

or loved by someone, maybe

someone like you.

But not you, exactly.  That is already gone

and I am left with replacement parts.

I need someone with your bamboo sense,

your restless modesty,

your head shape and size,

your possessive placements,

your hived pollen chasing,

your haunts and your shadowed losses,

your signal to come home safely,

your not-often-enough blooming period,

your sense of wonder and dread at that 

which

you do not and can not understand.

There is a roll-call ongoing, with a litany

of calamities, smelly innocent mistakes

committed in the name of distraction

and/or jealoused, wanted, malignant 

attraction.

We want what we can have, except

when we can not, and find ourselves

at a distant key without a lock.

© 2023 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved