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May 022010
 

by
Salvatore Attardo

I


 

Dying is god’s punch line

to your life

a dirty, nasty story

you didn’t get, halfway gone

a rambling affair, not quite done right,

slightly disgusting

one listens to for fear of offending

told awkwardly, out of order

probably messing up some of the good bits


 

and then the moment comes

and you ascend to hear

the snicker of cherubs


 

II


 

I am the undertaker

the rope merchant

the priapic angel of death


 

I am the reality check

your dreams unfulfilled

your story cut short


 

I am the child, the idiot son

the grim pallbearer

with empty pockets


 

who discovered Tourette’s syndrome

and never looked back


 

III


 

I sit in this high room

bought sight unseen

some mail order bride

I turned out to be


 

This is my castle

this Maltese falcon


 


 

IV


 

you tell yourself


 

this is the noblest of rots

this is game I hang to age


 

What about this righteous delusion

brightens your end?