Mark Twain's New American Novel Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When dead, I will become
As defined as a homeopathic cenotaph;
First, curled by kneeds of waves;
I will be rolled by the dark janitors,
Uncle Remus and Uncle Tom, to your
Suburban balcony; I will lay there for many days,
Just a knuckle under the dry pine needles;
Watching the milk of sunlight spill around
The landscaping, as you lean outwards all bosomy
Eating a slice of drippy watermelon; I would
Hope there that you would recall my name;
But that is impossible, for there is a flaw in
Your eye even I can see under the lavender thistles:
I would pull it out of you, if I were a whole man,
And inclined to the deeds of Paladins;
But I am no more, and yet shall remain here as
Less than the dauby insect, until you are finished
To the rind, until the weather takes you too,
Makes a May-pole of yours stems, the lesser animals
Jump-yip around; but they will forget who you
Are, while I will worship you in a séance of
Bereaved whispers until your house comes down,
Smothered by the cajoling thieveries of an almighty sea,
And then I must carry on somberly handsome,
Upon other adventures I have yet the mind to speak of.