There you are,
resplendent
and undeniably
on the slab, perhaps
prematurely but
still certain of
the oncoming
outpouring of grief
and accolades —
how much did you have to spend
to get this deep into the luxury
of wallowing in your own mortality?

If the ring on your finger
falls off when you decay,
can I have it?  Is it
a poison ring
with a compartment
full of rationale? Or
instead is it a charm,
scarab as saturated
with your obsession
as any Egyptian artifact?
Seems a shame
not to perpetuate
your masterpiece of suffering,
not to allow someone else
the chance to extend
the metaphor
for a few years yet;

let me try it on at least;
let me see what I can do
with what you’ve started.

In pursuit of
an indescribable
quality, hipsters
search for vintage

as if past
holds spice
not easily found
in present.

Without pretending
to be ancient, still
obsessed with
their own youth,

they adorn firm wrists
with patina-dull watches
they will overwind
and deck taut throats

with cameos
as if those permanent
faces could mask
how their own

will soon droop
and vanish
into that same past
they revere