Death has been jiving with me
the way I used to dance
with girls.
I was awkward.
Solipsistic.
Unconsummate.
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?
2/28/09