Poem for Sunday, January 6, 2013

The Death of a Local Legend

He wasn't in his bed flanked by two
toothsome blonds like he said he
would be, and Elvis wasn't crooning
on the stereo. Ray Charles wasn't
wailing, either--that was his backup
plan. No half-empty glasses of scotch.
No smoke twirling sensually from a
half-lit stogie balanced on the edge of
a crystal ashtray. What kind of way
is that to go out, anyway? No, it just
happened one Sunday. He was on
his way out for some innocuous
errand--to grab a quart of milk or to
mail the check for the water bill. His
daddy's Bible was on the table by sheer
coincidence. He palmed his chest and
went down to one knee, then his back.
He fought for breath while the wind
swayed the blinds and the cuckoo clock
struck twelve. His final thought was
not his mother, the women he made love
to all those August afternoons or all the
money he made and blew. It was simply
how cool the solid oak floor felt
against the nape of his neck. Anyone
might think the same thing.