March 4, 2005

Curtain

By Tony Brown

I’ve seen you pull coins
from the eyes of the dead
to pay the parking meter.

I’ve seen you and the hemlock vendor
chatting idly by the door
to the stadium.

I’ve smelled a hint of cyanide on your breath
just before you popped a mint
and smiled weakly back at this life.

Until now, you had always skipped that denouement
to get to the wake, where people
congratulated you on how great you looked

in your someday best and painted skin.
So now when we pull you from the water
and see you bloated here and shriveled there,

now when it’s clear that this time
it’ll be a closed box we’ll sit around
to speak of you; now I have to ask:

did all that dress rehearsal make it easier
to go down to the lake this last time,
or were you as scared for yourself

as we always were for you? Did you wonder
what we’d be saying now, or did it all pale
to white light as you sank away?

I have to say, this is not the way I thought you’d go.
I expected us to laugh bitterly together
at all those attempted escapes one day.

I may yet laugh
at you, at us, at this —
but not soon, and surely alone.

About Tony Brown

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A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown
This entry was posted on Friday, March 4th, 2005 at 1:37 pm and posted in uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.

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