Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Maybe I should do a chapbook of TV poems


Death should be clean, contained,
overlaid by humor,
set to allegro strings,
surpassed in sixty minutes.

Look closely: The ghosts
of hundreds of murders
cling to her twin set,
her sensible shoes, like thistle pods.

So she scrubs hard, picks nits,
pours buckets of softeners,
entrusts the brisk Maine air
to keep the sweaters cozy.