Schmactical Poem by Whit Leyenberger

I hope that at the end of my wanderings;
When my body is just a body and my heart
four valves, the tiny men in big glasses who will crack
my head open to see what's inside will be utterly
disappointed

I hope what they find will be no more than an ark of imaginary friends,
the schematics for a thousand impossible inventions,
oil portraits of every girl I'll ever kiss, tiny bottles trying to hold
the scents of summers and above all else: light

incredible, insurmountable, inbelievable: light

And being very let down that there was nothing they could
even jokingly call useful to the general welfare, I hope the
little men in big glasses discard me; throw me out of
an appropriately high window and smile in satisfaction
(as my fragments scatter back to the lit corners of the
world) Little do they know, they were my means
of germination

For perhaps on an unreasonably warm day in October
a drifting fantasy of mine might waft through an open
stain glass window and into the ear of a young girl singing
'the wheels on the bus' in church (because she can’t read
The hymn just yet) who will then beam a bit brighter:
And teach those saints a thing or two about grace