Excavation

Text: Poem by John Dickson

If they dig us out of lava

will I, guitar in hand, be discovered

standing on the tree stump beneath your window

singing some bawdy serenade

and you, draped over the windowsill above,

still giggling and tossing a rose

through the fresh evening lava

much to the disgust of the scandalized neighbors

not as yet dug up?

Or will I,

if they ever dig us out of lava,

be discovered standing guitar in hand,

on the tree stump beneath your window

singing some bawdy serenade in the fresh evening lava

while you, fearful of what

the neighbors not as yet dug up might think,

are discovered sulking in an easy chair

somewhere in the house-hiding from the window,

a wilted rose in your lap,

a dull dead dream in your eye

and a tear on your cheek that looks like amber?

Or, if they ever dig us out of lava,

will all they find be a tree stump in your yard

and you asleep with the window locked

and a guitar full of lava in the closet

somewhere on the other side of town

and me in the kitchen of another house

drinking a stein of lava to forget,

content with the thought that

the neighbors not as yet dug up

may sleep on peacefully and undisturbed?

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