By Peter Mladinic
He’s looking forward to death.
I’m not looking forward to death.
I’m looking forward to death
about as much as I’m looking forward
to opening a refrigerator
and finding a dead mouse,
or biting into an onion
or into a ham and Swiss on rye
with a thumb tack in it.
I’m not looking forward to death.
I’m looking forward to petting my dog
Sherlock when he wakes up,
and to starting a fire in a rock pit
and to building a palace for the voice
of a dead singer. The person looking
forward to death is a singer.
He’s had a good life. Same here.
But I want to fight death.
I want to live, and I want you to live.
Maybe you’re like the singer
who’s looking forward to death.
He’s made a lot of money off his singing.
Not so with my friend the dead singer,
whom I can hear on my iPhone.
The dead singer was a light smoker.
He had a sister, a daughter
in the army, stationed in Germany.
I can’t recall his ever saying her name,
or the name of his sister.
I didn’t see him in the hospital.