I might stop watching TV because I don’t
want anyone else to die. Killing your darlings
is all the rage these days—no one’s prepped
for art imitating life with a rib to the gut
when the ratings go down. And I know
it’s all supposed to be play, like little children
laying on their backs and closing their eyes
but maybe I’m not interested in having another friend
ripped away from me into the autumn brush or cast
into silence, all because the status quo hasn’t shaken
its limbs in a while and straightened the coil over wildfire.
David passed away in a coma on Friday morning.
Karen called up to say he “made his transition”
and I’m left trying to come up with another meaning
for another piece of the world going static
while she asks me to help put his writing desk
into storage. Maybe I’m better off with the idiot box.
At least I know there’s a Writer behind every decision
to take one in the chest or feel your teeth rattling out
your gums when the Center City bus is at a red light.
And at least I’ll know there’s someone who cares
enough about me to try and keep me on the same channel.
From my upcoming poetry collection, “dead friends.“