What Remains

If a king

the armor fills a corner

of a museum or library

the same for all the words

handwritten typed or printed

if the paper is good it may last

if on vellum perhaps a bit more

Human and animal skeletons

occupy boxes and drawers

in the backrooms for researchers

The past is dug from deserts

the tops of mountains

or all spaces in between

Mother's ashes are

in a plastic five gallon bucket

with 5 copies of a CD

filled with photos of family

and memories of her life

Her pink outfit with the pink mink

the ashes of her favorite dog

The soil will gradually wear away

revealing the plastic

for the sun to bleach

or for a future anthropologist

to study or store in a drawer

The armor I wear will go to a business

that deals with cast-off cotton

that turns fiber into money

or better paper to print this poem

that wasn't printed anywhere

and left for the ages

as ones and zeros

Slow decay and electrical wars

will turn these thoughts

to a lightning of mush

My skull will be in a drawer

or ashes moving with storms

down the rivers

down to the ocean

down to the sea with boats

where my father gradually sifts

through the seabeds

where a colorful wrasse

will nod as it swims by

It seems to say

that I'm not looking too good

these days

as its scales flash

the last line here

in remembrance of me

damn

the fish will be electric

They teach their schools

to imagine

our useless attempts

to save our world

in crumbling buildings

ground to dust

our ridiculous self-importance

sliding beneath new continents

Barry G. Wick