Organ Donor
When I die
from forgetting to check my blind spot
when changing lanes.
Or
out hiking in Winton Woods
a stray bullet to the neck.
Possibly even
trying to take a stray dog home,
slipping on the icy driveway,
trying to stop a fight.
Really, it does not matter which of those ways.
or when.
So long as you give away my organs.
My lungs,
to the girl in choir,
that I never met.
She quit two years before I started.
Had too,
you have to breath to sing.
Tell her to use my breath to breath life.
Go to her concerts,
and listen to her
sing, sing, sing.
A kidney each
to the twins up in Akron,
preemies,
this just one in their long line of complaints.
Get them out of the hospital and into third grade.
Go,
some Tuesdays,
for me,
and watch them getting picked up by their mom.
You don't need to tell them much.
They're too young for all of that.
But tell them I was partial to the swings,
and their new kidneys might be too.
My liver
to the man in AA
in the hospital.
He's cleaning up his life
but it was too late for his liver.
Visit him once in a while.
Pick him up from his therapist
Friday afternoons,
and drive him home.
Sit in the kitchen while he makes dinner,
and tells you stories
about camping with his kids.
Tell him about the pictures you saw,
of when I went camping with the small group,
when I was small.
Let him make you stay for dinner.
And it is OK if you
have a beer.
He won't.
There's a lady,
you know the one,
I used to see her at Kroger.
She needs my small intestine.
She's only 69, she's got a lot of life left in her.
Take her to a baseball game,
if only once.
She'll tell you about the entire history of the Reds.
Tell her about the only time we went to see them play.
I don't much care who gets my pancreas
so long as they need it.
And you read them poetry on Sunday mornings.
Mail this one to them.
And you.
You can have my heart.
Take with it all the love
that has ever flowed in
or out.
There's a lot there,
I hope,
but use it wisely.
By this
I mean,
of course,
to give love away to everyone you see.
from forgetting to check my blind spot
when changing lanes.
Or
out hiking in Winton Woods
a stray bullet to the neck.
Possibly even
trying to take a stray dog home,
slipping on the icy driveway,
trying to stop a fight.
Really, it does not matter which of those ways.
or when.
So long as you give away my organs.
My lungs,
to the girl in choir,
that I never met.
She quit two years before I started.
Had too,
you have to breath to sing.
Tell her to use my breath to breath life.
Go to her concerts,
and listen to her
sing, sing, sing.
A kidney each
to the twins up in Akron,
preemies,
this just one in their long line of complaints.
Get them out of the hospital and into third grade.
Go,
some Tuesdays,
for me,
and watch them getting picked up by their mom.
You don't need to tell them much.
They're too young for all of that.
But tell them I was partial to the swings,
and their new kidneys might be too.
My liver
to the man in AA
in the hospital.
He's cleaning up his life
but it was too late for his liver.
Visit him once in a while.
Pick him up from his therapist
Friday afternoons,
and drive him home.
Sit in the kitchen while he makes dinner,
and tells you stories
about camping with his kids.
Tell him about the pictures you saw,
of when I went camping with the small group,
when I was small.
Let him make you stay for dinner.
And it is OK if you
have a beer.
He won't.
There's a lady,
you know the one,
I used to see her at Kroger.
She needs my small intestine.
She's only 69, she's got a lot of life left in her.
Take her to a baseball game,
if only once.
She'll tell you about the entire history of the Reds.
Tell her about the only time we went to see them play.
I don't much care who gets my pancreas
so long as they need it.
And you read them poetry on Sunday mornings.
Mail this one to them.
And you.
You can have my heart.
Take with it all the love
that has ever flowed in
or out.
There's a lot there,
I hope,
but use it wisely.
By this
I mean,
of course,
to give love away to everyone you see.
No comments:
Post a Comment