A Prayer

Great Ooga-Booga, in your golden pavilion 
beside the dung heap, please 
don't let me die in a public place. 
I still see the man on the café floor 
at the airport beneath a canopy 
of florescence, somewhere 
in the Midwest or back East, 
travelers walking around him 
& texting on cell phones 
while someone shocked him back, 
fiddling with dials & buttons 
on a miraculous instrument. 
 Was the memory of a dress in his head? 

Great Ooga-Booga, forgive me 
for wearing out my tongue before 
I said your praises. No, I haven't 
mastered the didgeradoo. 
I don't have an epic as a bribe. 
My words are simple. Please 
don't let me die gazing up at a streetlight 
or the Grand Central facades. 
Let me go to my fishing hole 
an hour before the sun sinks 
into the deep woods, or let me swing 
on the front porch, higher & higher 
till I'm walking on the ceiling.