DEAD

When I die,
I want to be a dry brown leaf,
skidding along hot pavement,
making the scraping sound
of dead dry things.
I want to be
chased by a young child
and stepped on.
I want to crunch
a waterless crunch.
I want to be blown off,
swept away
as dead, worthless dust,
never to be thought of again.
When I die,
I want to be dead.