A Tomb Figure

Waking into marble repose,

a tomb-figure of myself,

is an illusion too solid

to refute without proper tools.

Today, my birthday, severs me

from what little self remains

of my eight wasted decades.

The bare winter ground aches

for a climate healthy for trees

when every sensible creature

goes dormant or hibernates.

I stoke a fire in the woodstove

to roast my secret skeleton

and bake my flesh till it’s tender.

No one will phone or drive up

my driveway, no one will offer

cake or sing a pointless song.

My freshly marbled body 

makes all movement dubious

but I’m determined to live up to

the childhood I promised myself

when I was as slight as a sneeze.

The thousands of books I’ve read

gather in the gray dawn shadows

and clap the dust from themselves

to paint my new tomb figure

with false but cheerful antiquity.