So-and-So died today,
which is to say
his essences,
his seven senses––
taste, hearing, touch, scent, sight,
insight, and oversight––
deserted him, they simply slipped away,
not into anybody
else’s body
nor into someone else’s mind
(harder to find)––
no, they vacated
for good. Evaporated.

And this was no big news––
except for This One, mainly, whose
life is no more at question.
Cleared of congestion,
now he can’t change,
his long limbs cannot range,
cowboy-style, the way he used to ride
the earth, as if astride
an invisible horse.
Of course,
his lovely room, or rather, its appurtenances,
under the circumstances,
will vanish, too––all that he took such care
to keep shipshape––will sink into thick air,
the world’s material conglomeration
engorging all the small things he’d relied on
to help him feel at home––
down to his nail-clippers and comb?
Well, no, there is a limit,
better to throw these, the most intimate
items away, so they won’t intimate
their master has not met this fate
but will return for them at a later date.

Proving that So-and-So has died,
his widow cried
the most, as widows will,
theirs being the bitterest pill
to swallow,
knowing what will follow
all she has lost––
what it will cost
to, necessarily,
survive precariously
from here out, moving on, and in
and out, with kith and kin,
children, and kissing cousins.

But oh, how desperately Death cozens
(archaic, cheats) us all, especially him
for whom I’ve sung this slim
funereal hymn.