What shall I do with you when you die?
Should I leave you on the mantelpiece,
Or bury you in a line of the suburban dead,
Scattter your ashes like glitter in the midday sun
On a Tahitian beach,
Or should I take you where the Maoris run
Towards their homeland Hawaiiki
Where the oceans meet.
Perhaps I could take you to the café in Paris
Where we had an afternoon of fun
And never made it to see Picasso,
Or scatter you among the vines
To make your way into the terroir
Of a silky glass of pinot noir.
But you’ll be dead.
And your pleasures will be gone.
Your expensive museum piece,
That you call Hans the car,
Might now get driven
Along highways and gravel roads
And for picnics we always talked about.
But you’ll be gone and it won’t be the same.
So let’s dance in the midday rain,
And go to Mexico and Spain,
And talk to each other,
And enjoy Hans and pinot noir,
Here and now because I won’t be able
To make up for anything when you’re gone.
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