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To lie in the arms of my one true soullove
wearing a Nicole Miller little black dress
in a size six.

To climb the cliffs at Big Sur and look down
at the crushing waves below, and know
that I have not lived without tasting octopus
or running the Boston Marathon
or pulling the ropes that ring the bells
that call Christians and questioners to worship
at St. Michael's church in Charleston, South Carolina,
beloved city of the great Pat Conroy, whom I will meet
before I meet Jesus Christ himself.

I will slip into the afterlife quietly, but not before
publishing one fine poem in a print journal
of unquestioned quality and reputation.

Oh, to grow one perfect purple orchid,
or a bumper crop of giant pumpkins.

And wade in the Bellagio Fountains in Vegas,
where I will put a thousand dollars on black 17
and not care if I win or lose, but if I win, to drop the cash
in the hands of one lucky homeless fellow who sleeps
on a cardboard pallet, and who will blow it all at the craps table,
and not care of he wins or loses.

To fade out of this world and into the next,
with War and Peace resting on my falling chest,
turned to the final page - the original Russian
still on my lips.