JOHN F. BUCKLEY

BUCKET LIST

To touch the flame to the spray again, for
old time’s sake. To hook the eye of a young,
thin one passing too close. To draw a black
seed pentagram and call the crows down on
its points. To leave my shoes smelling of cloves
at the end of the promenade. To pierce
my ear with a needle threaded with my
lost darling’s hair. To ricochet among
the dancers on the icy wooden floor.
To rock, no, rocket. To sing, coo, gently
remonstrate despite the urge to approve
and be approved. To gather the D&D dice
and derringer for Russian-roulette Yahtzee.
To win the maroon brooch in long-distance
competitive napping. To rearrange
the bodies to spell the menu’s daily
specials. To lip a policeman. To hurl
my feats against the front window, leaving
trickling greasy silhouettes. To polish
a mirror until my image weakens.
To recall each chalkstroke of the dwarven
frescoes, the ruffling images on low
stucco walls. To pucker my face against
the onslaught of the past. To doff my hat
in the service of a higher cause. To
surf a proud man’s spittoon. To topple and
reach the water. To spend a perfect year
and place it in a box. To haul the small
potatoes inward, to the center, for
the trapped miners. To guide my echoes to
a fresh understanding, a stiff mountain’s
farthest peak, a mouselint epiphany.