Not That

Even before you are finally gone
the things that will cease to matter
do drive-bys on your brain unhindered
by any possibility that you will
recognize them or name names.
You will become indignant about
things disconnected from words, will
smile at everyone because anyone
could be someone you know. Clueless
and keyless, trapped outside in your
pajamas, you’re just a nuisance in
a neighborhood no longer yours.
Installed in someone else’s bed,
you will discover the past has been
carpet-bombed by electricity in your
head except for shrines so remote
only monkeys and snakes go there.
Suddenly somebody roughs you up
to change the sheets, dials loud rap
up on your radio. Bye-bye Beethoven,
bye-bye Brahms. And there’s no more
doing as you please on Saturdays.

. . .

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