Will they be glad when I am gone

when my bare feet float above the tile

will there be regret will there be none

will any stop to think a while

The street will stir the cars will pass

the news will come and go

the mail won't stop nor will the grass

that's how things go I know

My goodbye thoughts I will not write

there'd be no point in it

my message however so contrite

would only ever awkward sit

maybe this is how it goes

toward the end your mind runs dry

dreams drip from your dangling toes

your eyes roll up toward the sky