I will walk down to a marina
on a hot day and not go out to sea.
I will go to bed and get up early,
and carry too much cash in my wallet.
On Memorial Day I will visit the graves
of all those who died in my novels.
If I have become famous I’ll wear a green
janitor’s suit and row a wooden boat.
From a key ring on my belt will hang
thirty-three keys that open no doors.
Perhaps I’ll take all of my grandchildren
to Disneyland in a camper but probably not.
One day standing in a river with my fly rod
I’ll have the courage to admit my life.
In a one-room cabin at night I’ll consign
photos, all tentative memories to the fire.
And you my loves, few as there have been, let’s lie
and say it could never have been otherwise.
So that: we may glide off in peace, not howling
like orphans in this endless century of war.