People will call the paramedics instead of the SWAT team
when I climb the big Christmas tree in the park.
Best behavior will cast itself like an emanating fart
whenever I enter the room.
People will stop cursing around me.
Or they will curse around me, and say
“Bet you’ve heard it all already” then smile in a way
that makes me want to watch them run from polar bears.
I will step onto the bus sporting something tweed
and asses will rise to offer me one of the sideways seats.
I will sit and hum a tune that might have had words.
For no reason, the face of the samurai statue I owned in 2004
will appear and yawn in my face.
I should be a person of stature by then—
a pillar correcting the community’s natural slant.
I’ll keep the pool hall from biasing the southeast corner pockets
and the barber shop from getting too post modern.
I will be a person who can walk into town hall meetings
fingering the edges of my discounted bus pass
and be the first to get the microphone.
When I’m sixty four, the first town hall meeting I go to
I will propose a program that gives assault rifles,
Kevlar vests and silent running helicopters to polar bears
at the start of every hunting season.
I will propose that when the hunters arrive to shoot the bears,
we take away their guns and give them armfuls of trout
that they must fling at the bears.
I will go into fantastic detail.
I will speak until my bus pass becomes faded and threadbare.
Then someone will put their hands on my shoulders and thank me,
and their soft voice and their touch will confuse my senses.
I will feel the air from their breath the way you hear music
and I will say, “Not at all. Thank you.”