Death is a bachelor, but I expected
        His place to be clean. Instead, the bed's unmade,
        The long-past-polished floor's piled high
        With clothesheaps; takeout bones; the ruined
        Wreck of some machine it seems he couldn't fix
        To save his life; a dirty fingered
        Windowpane, beneath which, mounted on the sill
        Ghostpetalstrewn, gloats a Polaroid: boy death,
        His toys, jellybeans, black balloon.

        I try his specs: death can't see shit.
        I try his shoes: They fit. So then
        Before I blow I leave my bill and lay
        Things out: his booze, his cigarettes, his People
        Magazine, dim down the lights. Just one

        Regret: I should have snagged those shoes.

Copyright © John Cotter, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.