I do not miss you in your being dead.
How could I? They do not let you fall
Silent, but instead repeat
Your highlights of irrelevance.
Then try to honor you
By becoming less relevant themselves.
Movie this, CD that,
Part of a series (they have to repeat;
You’d never know that there were other tapes),
Hall of Fame the other thing.

It was nothing you did
On purpose that I mourn
But how you made me take others for granted.
You’d read an e-mail and they’d read the score;
You’d cough and wheeze, they’d say things would be fine;
You’d talk and nod and groan and they’d look bright.

And the seventh inning was not stretched,
Compressed by skipping over one batter,
To hear stale echoes. And the game was live.


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