Gone On A Gust

Let me make certain
that I have wrung
from my self
every possible drop
before I dry up
and blow away.

I’ll be only
a small cloud,
a dust devil
on the sidewalk,
if I do it right.

My worst fear is 
that when I pass
I shall pass
as a tornado
with its attendant pain
and wreckage.

Not that such damage
would be unexpected
considering what I’ve
left behind in life
so far

but one should 
after a certain age strive
to leave less mess,
to ghost the party
having become
a grateful husk

which, when
the time comes,
falls apart
in a sweet smoke. Let me be
gone on a gust.

Let any legacy of mine
not be based in how I pass.
Let it show in what I left
that was not me and my
attendant troubles,
but was the work of spiting

and triumphing over those;
but as for this person — no.  
Let me be forgotten — my atoms,
my soil, my funks and wars
and storms. Let me pass
without notice

into that
good, good night.