The cord’s encircled me. I foresee
ugly death in the center of a eel.
He rubbed his hands in anticipation
then added, my being is done with.
And my wife, my wife, she just sits
crosslegged, every once in a while
asking for a Scotch as she soothes
her eyes staring at the sun. I mean,
I tell her, I am fucking dying, and
she says, ain’t we all? Jimmy, my
only son, cries. I mean, at least,
he understands. And I do too. I
let him cry. I know he needs to cry
about such a thing as death. His
teachers call us and complain about
his moaning in class, how it messes
up their lectures about the three
branches of gov’t. Screws their
sessions on the difference between
past and present participles. They
listen to me cry over the phone line.
They’ve reported me to the county.
I told this civil servant about my
death. He told the wife she should
raise our child. Only 1 is listening.
My audience is my self. My positive
emptiness is compelling me to see that
my actualizing is a singular ending.