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My Late Demise
I want my death to arrive like a
Virgin train, shuffling shame-faced
into station, from a journey more
stationary than loco motive,
guard glumly apologetic
and morose, glibly muttering of
leaves lain in wait upon the lines.
I’d like it served cold, fast food
gone slow, a rusty rundown car
stalled in the drive through lane,
apoplectic parents weakly
pacifying sullen baying brats.
I’d like it absentmindedly
overdue, a well liked and leafed
library book, long loaned
literally lost and alone,
left out of sight and mind.
I’d like it said a stuttered sentence,
trembling timorously behind tongue
tied teeth, sprayed staccato, saliva
drenched, through clenched jaws,
delays yawning wider into pause.
I’d like it sneaking, an errant schoolboy,
scurrying surreptitiously before the end
of registration, weaving warily in the
ink stained forest of raised desks,
wiping sticky sleep from startled eyes.
O how I hope my death is late,
not me!
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