When They Exhume My Poems

When I die I give the Pulitzer Board Permission To exhume my lyrics And some overweight ME Will put my verses on a slab Going thru my stanzas for tone looking for assonance and Consonance in my bones As my family waits around to see If i really was a great poet And they will probe my lines for cadence Meter and Trochee Taking notes As they dissect My poetry They will say I was anemic On my tercets And many of my quatrains were forced As they search for the source One of the examiners will write on his tablet That I never wrote A Sestina or villanelle They will note, He was good. But his books didn't really sell. The NAACP will close that he didn’t Represent the Black community Like King or Rosa Parks Leaving my legacy a question mark And no one will be specifically sure If I advanced the Black Race Leaving the matter a Cold Case My kids will ask But what does all this mean? Was he really a great poet? Was he as good as Frost or Hughes The examiner will stare confused The autopsy will be intrusive And they will say: REPORT INCONCLUSIVE!!