In memory of Ed, Joe, John R, John W, Joyce, Mae, Tony, and too many others
What should have killed you was a whoopee cushion –
a rogue one, overly inflated, say –
that in an unexpected, painless blast
blew you away.
Or else you might have ended with a sploosh in
a diner when the waiter (who knows why?)
crashed into you exceptionally fast
with a cream pie.
But no: instead, a germ or plaque or tumor
led straight to some non-farcical disease
that you and yours were forced to suffer through
by slow degrees.
Death really needs a better sense of humor.
At least it can’t erase this epitaph:
Your words – alive in books and friends – give you
the final laugh.