The Glorious Burn

Gimmie, gimmie, my name is Jimmy.
Did you know I am a Jew?
A language of schoolroom propriety.
I long to leave what you call me,
I long to be what they call you.
The 8 the 10 the 20 the 40.
No matter what, I am nothing, except maybe what I want to be.
But even then, what am I?
A being, closer to being, a separate being from myself.
A ray of the sun, but nothing like a shining star of sorts.
I laugh and love, you don’t.
Who are you?
Which is the way?
Or is the way nothing but a road with no signs, or a man with no soul.
Summer, Spring, Fall, Winter, what season is it?
Uncle Sam will be gone by April, I’m sure of it.
That was a picnic I never forgot.
That was before the day of mr. sen- sen puckett,
Who is that?
Who cares?
Have they got holes in the knee?
Well if so, walk slowly,
Or the shadows of age and wear will grab hold of you, and take me where?
Time is wasting.
But does anyone really mind?
It is an imagined burden,
But yet, it runs out.
Who says?
I shall die, and shall be spared the end,
And that last bitterness of war.
To burn is certain, but will it not be scalding
Will it warm our hearts and leave us in a tight knit pile of what?
Who knows?
Who cares?
May a common salvation lift us both from the dust,
And if we burn, who will burn along side my charred remains.