If I Were a Poet

I’d always imagined there would be music—
orchestra and choir
in a majestic cathedral,
and a crowd of thousands
dressed in black,
most of them crying inconsolably,
some silent, still in shock.

The clocks would chime,
and on the streets—
businessmen and beggars alike
would stop their work and think
of me.

If it was winter,
the apple trees would blossom.
And if it was summer,
there would be hail and ice.
The moon would bleed.
The stars would fall.

But,
the day I died,
there were three or four people
standing in a little room,
none of them knowing what to say,
until someone cracked a joke,
and the others laughed
awkwardly.
Outside, the sun (its usual color)
was setting (at its usual time),
and the only music was
the wind.