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One Life

Richard Landers

When my time comes, dear Lord,
let it not be marked by filtered light
and glossy waterfalls, photographs
in this downtown travel agency,
my washed out paper ticket. Posters
on coral pilasters of moons over Buffalo,

under vapid corbels where I begin to feel
perhaps my time has come. May no one recall
kitchen magnets, on my account, words posted
in floral across from the commode,
not a second alone. And bar, dear God,
silhouettes or the perpetual talking head.

Let the people keep silent when I cast
the coda of my life. Free of horrors feared
but rarely suffered, approach the new moon
through layered clouds. Allow glory
in the given, from shells and raw shallows,
walking head-on into this fascinating town.

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