He had an ego problem.
He really wanted to be cremated
and have his ashes strewn
along the rocky coast.
But he was worried.
Suppose he actually wrote
The Great American Novel?
Those who idolized him,
the sophomore girls
with large pink breasts
who studied him at Vassar and Wellesley
would have no grave to visit.
No shrine at which to mourn.
Possible problem ’bout posterity.
He poured another drink.
August 27, 1982