Last Will and Testament
I bequeath my steak knives
to all the men I have ever loved.
May they divide them evenly.
I donate my ratty sheets and towels
to my neighbors to serve as shrouds.
My dryer lint goes to the fairies for their cathedrals.
The hand-scrawled missives intended
for my first love go to the smart, handsome
attorney in Miracle on 34th Street.
(He’ll know what to do with them.)
To the sun, I give my bed warmer.
My sprinkler, I give to the rain.
My garbage cans go to the trash man
and any rope I have lying around here
goes to the one minding the gallows.
Undone to-do lists and scraps of paper
marked by unidentified phone numbers
go into bottles to be cast out to sea.
Dead batteries go to the Energizer Bunny
and worn extension cords go to a place
where electricity has yet to be invented.
Burnt-out light bulbs go to the ghost
of Thomas Alva Edison and frayed laces
go to the old woman who lived in a shoe.
My pail goes to Jack,
my broken crown to Jill,
and my fleece as white as snow
goes to Mary who sits by her little lamb
and knits me a fine sweater; a cardigan
to clothe me in the next life.