Now That I Am Dead

Now that I am dead under the azaleascolorful as a woman’s wedding gown,below dirt just heaped, what good is love?I made such noise about feeling I waslonely, misery-ridden, badly done-to,I made myself sick and turned to wordstwisted into little songs I liked to hum.Women in glasses often asked for more,crossing their legs, watching the windows.Whatever they said, they said love iswhy a man wants a new car, why songsand home towns are always waiting for himto walk in disguised as wisdom and sex.The story is people can’t get enough jokesto chain them together, laughing, cryinguntil the man goes into a bar, the womansnorts, sixty minutes you’re dreaming,and the barman snickers oh stop it nowas the dark ending slips through a side door,sleek bitch quickly gone with someone else,and day ticks, clicks on like the streetlight.So there I was, lifting the foamed glass,trying to remember who I had ever loved,and who might have loved me whenthe lovers walked in, took a quiet booth,spoke a few words, then one took it outand bang! missed the other, but got me.It’s that randomness I miss most of all,the way love filled in the cracks of a day,or showed up in a bar all normal lookingbut already crazy, already the squeezenot you, not them, not anyone alive keeps.