Death’s a mess.
While waiting around
it’s all around.
Time collapses in on all of us.
We always know what time it is,
from clocks, watches, and radios,
TV, songs, and now smart phones.
If we lived in prehistoric times,
or as members of an Amazon tribe
apart from all other human intercourse,
we might live shorter lives
that might feel longer,
every day the same day.
Unknown to us how Christmas crowds
the Fourth of July evermore.
Without mirrors we wouldn’t see our
transitions into different persons,
except through the gentle, pitying
expressions on our children’s faces.
What little they do know.
It’s a mess, I tell you,
cyborged with plastic piping and opiod
progressions, telltale klaxons of
what we know is happening.
No, better to go off gathering tree leaves
to eat beneath the tropical sun,
sitting on our loincloths ‘til
Surprise! Our lives are done.