Your latest reject letter only said:
“We reject works, not authors.” But it may
As well have tried convincing you that what
Is infinitely small is nonetheless
Still infinite. You wondered why your trip
To see your childhood home, unvisited
In sixty years, would terrify you more
Than did your gravesite, bought last week. You lay
For twenty minutes on the floor before
A pair of medics elbowed through the crowd
Too late. But if they could have saved your life,
What then would they have done? Resuscitate?
Defibrillate? Ensure the misery
Of all your future days by failing to
Prevent cerebral hypoxemia?
How difficult our verticality!
Your last wish was that Dorothy Parker could
Have written your obituary verse.
Yet hundreds at your funeral. I’ll bet
So many mourners would not come for me.
Some would say: “What a wondrous way to die!
Engaged in what you loved and sharing it
Like Leonard Warren on the opera stage.”
But no! It was a horrid way to die!
Cold obstacle to strangers pawing you,
Some meaning well, some not, all in the way,
Such impotent and ignorant voyeurs
Surrounded you to comfort or lend help
Or not. Some tried to get out of the way,
But all remained smack in the way, annoyed
Because your dying ass was in their way.
A truly wondrous way to die would be
A painless, quick, unconscious heart attack
Alone, asleep, at peace, at last. No one
Would find your corpse or even know you’re dead
Until your skeleton smiled up at them.
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