3/12/11
When comes my final season, where I must succumb to time,
Erect no mausoleum, lasting monument, or shrine.
Etch neither words that go unheard, nor pointless epitaphs.
Refrain from long memorials contrived on my behalf.
Recall me realistically, a common, simple man,
A mute component to the crowds in which I used to stand.
An ordinary gear in life’s prosaic manifold,
Who kept his place, allegiant, chaste, and did as he was told.
For such a proper gentleman, a plain grave should suffice,
Thus, let me rest, invisible, much as I was in life.
