by Phil Heagy
Let’s whisp around a ghost-world,
Polite society doesn’t breathe a word down here,
and ’tis comforting to harpoon your “words to live by”:
Frog-march ’em into the past tense
and heigh-ho: your readymade/form-fit/bide-a-wee epitaph!
And by the way, IS the past tense?
I would be —
tombstone-scriveners keep slathering on the third person.
Why should the living have the last word
over my corpse-custard —
“For heaven’s sake,” perhaps?
Rise up, o Lies ‘R Us,
your son’s over the boneyard.
By golly, now you’ll hear and see your
“Spoon River, wider than a mile” —
Every moth-mouth a Jerry Colonna!
Alas, Lazy Chatterdead’s Clover
is pulled over my eyes far too soon:
Froggie comes a-corpse’n and I must hide,
Phil Heagy, retired librarian, lives an exciting life in rural Pennsylvania with a retired-librarian wife and happily-illiterate doggy. When not penning his (wildly unpublished) poems, he’s busy chiseling out his own epitaph.