My Headstone

My Headstone

Where is it now, if it’s been carved at all?
Maybe it’s still in the quarry or wherever it is
They dig them up from, 
I guess as one big rock, 
So maybe they get two or three out of it, 
Depending on how big the rock is.
I don’t think anyone chisels them by hand anymore.
Probably they have something now 
To cut them with.
They look like they do anyway,
Smooth as the new ones are.
I wish I could get a rough, hand-hewn one
But I would have had to have died long ago,
Before I was born, even.
Anyway, I’d like to have a look at mine.
Really though, I’d like to squat right down
And see my reflection in its face
Like a father his face in his son’s,
Before my name and my dates
And whatever lines of poetry you chose for me
Mark it as finally mine,
Though, since we’re already talking,
No poetry please.
Hasn’t there been plenty?
Just my full name, 
First, middle, last, 
And the years. 
Years wear well, I think.
One can always get one’s head around years.
But no days and months.
Born in November, died in Whenever.
No thank you.
I’m already embarrassed by the date of my death,
Which is why I look down
Every time I pass it,
Which is every three hundred and sixty-five days or so.
Just the years will do.
Four numbers, a dash, four numbers,
Like a mouth neither smiling nor frowning,
A mouth set to the truth.
I know in the end I'll never see it.
Can’t through the coffin lid and all that ground.
And even if I could,
Not the right angle.
But it's somewhere,
Even if it isn’t it yet.
In a way it's already got my name written on it,
Which is why we're moving towards each another
Inevitably
Like a ship and a rock,
Slowly or quickly,
Hopefully slowly.
Hopefully it’s a pink one,
The color of a salt lick.
Nothing fancy.
Something simple.
I want the kind people
Visiting their dead at the cemetery 
Point out to each other and say 
Pretty, isn't it?