After I’m Gone
But Who‘s Counting
Bukowski, he saw, beyond the love-death tragedy,
that the snap of a broken shoelace
can drive head-on to insanity —
How many shoelace snaps will you endure
after I’m gone?
Yes we did, we both did vow — from this day forward,
but no fair dates are ever set
for death’s collection plate passed onward
How many orgasms will shake your foundations
after I’m gone?
A pot of coffee every morning, or will you switch to tea,
slices of pizza, plain, or your favorite
with discs of pepperoni —
How many seltzer bubbles will dance on your tongue
after I’m gone?
Chorus:
There is a number for everything, a wise philosopher once said
What was done, what is happening, and what will be til we’re dead.
On some cosmic spreadsheet, it’s elementary my dear —
Our horserace statistics are added, until we dismount.
Maybe living in Brooklyn, don’t know why, I’m just just guessing,
or a Reno apartment with your cat, Burner
on a sunny windowsill caressing —
How many trains, boats and planes will transport you
after I’m gone?
Hats and umbrellas, cellphones and underwear,
accouterments for the maintenance of flesh
perhaps even a wheelchair —
How many more hairs will be cut and fingernails clipped
after I’m gone?
Marketing words and images continue on perpetual roll,
a daily barrage to deflect and ignore
and dodge their insidious control —
How many more wars will you have to hear justifcations for
after I’m gone?
Chorus:
There is a number for everything, a wise philosopher once said
What was done, what is happening, and what will be til we’re dead.
On some cosmic spreadsheet, it’s elementary my dear —
Our horserace statistics are added, until we dismount.
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© AleXander Hirka 2019. All Rights Reserved.
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