…then again, I could
just die on stage — I mean it,
really die — drop dead
in the middle of a poem —

kind of the way I once stopped
in the middle of a sentence
during a meeting, excused
myself, walked into
the bathroom, puked and
passed out; a dress rehearsal
for dying, of course it was —
though I came back from it,
from the stroke, from
the momentary dive, within
a few minutes; but I digress —

I could stop that way
in the middle of a poem
on a cluttered stage, my eyes
rolling back, my hands rolling
ineffectually around, the paper
I read from falling to the floor,
people rushing up as I go
away, far away —

but I wonder:
which poem I would choose
to die on, which phrase
I would fail on, what would
my last phrase be; would
I choke on it or die with a
smile or something profound
on my face? Would you know,
do you know, does anyone here
or elsewhere in this blessed world know
upon which phrase I would go?

Believe me, it’s not yet written
but I’ll type for a long time,
probably longer than I have,
to get that one out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T