Burn my pyre on the smooth,
eternal green of our Padres.
See if you can fill a row
with ones I helped or loved
or else did not drive hard
away. Release a snow of
paper seagulls and know
when I said sorry, I meant
a roaching sorrow. Then, in
the middle of the benediction
The Blue Angels!
Rending heaven like new bread,
their patriotic yawp repeats as
you descend those concrete steps.
And in the glow of one another you
forget I was so loud and prodigal.