La Petite MortbyVictoria_Lucas©
The poets speak of death
as if it is the Greenwich Village of the Underworld
and they are the only ones with entry Visas.
These are the love handles of amplified life:
a mere misery of miniseries on channel five,
of calories, spending of tax dollars, the dishes
and who last washed them, medicating for legal reasons,
new babies in dumpsters, finding a parking spot downtown.
All the glorious middle parts,
they say this is the small death.
The French mean something different
but they are largely ignored. Death instead,
may be the absence of food.
(And the existentialists say it is the consumer who becomes the consumed.
The poets do not chuckle.)
I think on death,
as of late, the late me,
and believe if anything death is much too punctual.