Upon the discovery of
the death of my sanity,
may my assets be divided
as follows:

To my hands, I leave
my note and sketchbooks,
my pens and my markers,
and my whimsical ideas.

To my legs, I leave
my backyard and pool,
the park near my house,
and the will to run.

To my hips, I leave
the bass line and dance floor,
my satin sheets and his company,
and some (limited) self-restraint.

To everything else, I leave
nothing, for I have no more
to give; I am my things, a collection
of wonderful no-use objects and
ideas that a catchpole
(like the real world)
will no doubt take
as a luxury tax.