Dissonance on the Dance Floor

Death has been jiving with me

the way I used to dance

with girls.

I was awkward.




I should take death more seriously.

It may be unsure of itself,

but it has all the unswerving intent

of a letch on the prowl.


My daughter rolled her Camry

in a ditch Wednesday,

spewing glass

and contorting metal.

She asked the EMT

who dabbed her scrapes,

to rescue her iPod,

which was still playing,

like a graveside bagpiper.


Louise’s brother-in-law

died today.

He had beaten prostate cancer,

as I have,

or so he thought,

as I do.

He went like a snowflake,

I was told.


I’ve had premonitions lately

but they don’t worry me.

I’ve convinced myself

they’re all about

a used-up self dying off

and a new self emerging.


Or is it really the death

of all selves

sidling up,

hormones raging,

not to be denied?


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