making the elegy all about himself, as if he
were the one to drink his liver
into oblivion without so much
as a Pushcart to show for it. He
is only half as pathetic as he
makes himself out to be (the
deceased), whispering sweet
nothings to his new bride (the dirt)
while she nods her many meal-
worm heads to their soft rhythms. He can’t
(both of them now) keep going on
about death like this, it’s
indulgent, it’s low-hanging (overripe,
now rotting) fruit. It’s so pregnant
(aborted) with self-doubt and ego, which is
a gross balance to achieve.
I don’t envy him (anyone).