When other people die, I try to hide
the tee hee hee not me, not yet, and set
my face to 7. Serious Regret,
(I’d dial it higher if a loved one died)
and hunker down to wait the weeping out.
No doubt this coldness makes me seem extreme
in my self-centred beingness, but I’ve
observed a truth: they’re dead and I’m alive;
so, too bad, deadies! Life may be a dream
but you’re not in it, whatever it’s about.
So tell me that I’m cold and unforgiving.
I’m not a man of whom it will be said,
"He left the world the better for his living."
I’ll leave the world the way we all will—dead.