Thursday, February 08, 2007

Dying Alone

When our friend Tom suddenly died
It was oddly dignified.

He died like an Indian in a forest alone,
In his chair, mid his forest of books, at home.

He got home from the grocery store,
Sat in his chair, then keeled to the floor.

Complaining of deathly pangs, quite ill,
He'd been subsisting on antacid pills.

Receipts in groceries rotting on the counter
Say he lay there longer than he ought to.

A mouse sniffed Giant Tom when he died,
A toppled monumental Buddha on its side.

His cat did mew, his puppies cried,
When their gentle, jolly Thomas died.

He was their shade, their shelter.
Now he's felled, they're helter skelter.

Our long delayed winter was transmogrified,
As snow fell by the inch, the foot, the yard.

Tom was a writer. He would have said,
It looks like my rejection letters stacked.

February in upstate, and snow blew and blew
Off Erie and Ontario.

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