Rewriting the Obits

“She is used to

this sort of thing”

—Sylvia Plath, “Edge

______________________

Sitting in my study—

Late at night in Court Green

I’m gazing out the window—

Instead of into a chintzy mirror

The dead know me—

When I come browsing

Browsing in the graveyard—

Ratty weeds above them

They’re nailed in space—

Down graveyard steps

Each coffin a Titanic—

Still sinking further down

I rearrange the deckchairs—

And the band plays on

I rewrite their obituaries—

They find it entertaining