Monday, February 20, 2017


A Better Man
   for Rod Simons

It’s preposterous.
We only have these seconds, minutes and days.
They roll up on our cheeks
as acne or sweat
from sex that is not sex at all,
but rather love,
even if it’s puppy love,
even if it’s slippery and elusive.
And all those seconds, minutes and days,
they conspire, collide and clog in order
to simply stop your heart one day,
as sure as sundown,
and you are gone,
just like that,
no questions asked,
perished, banished for good.
All the old photos come out afterward.
“Remember this?”
“I think this was when you were really drunk and fell into that _____while he was laughing his ass off.”
“Remember when you lost your shit and car keys and _______  ________ saved you?”
We’re all going to die.
I get it, I do.
That’s why life holds meaning.
But the rationale doesn’t make it any easier.
Can I just whine a while,
say that
I’m sick to death of death,
that death can go fuck itself to death?
Take me, not him,
is what I’m thinking.
I’m ready.
He wasn’t.
He was such a better man.
Can someone come and tell me
where I’m wrong on this?

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