We knew he was dead
because the dead don’t smile
unless someone works hard
with the lips, and someone had.
A profound local sadness
was everywhere felt. We
could hear several voices
praising the bold delicacy
of his work. No one said
his smile was really
a sardonic grin, or that
he was never as happy
as those lips would suggest.
I, for one, knew he was dead
because I felt suddenly free
of a standard no longer mine.
And of course he was dead
because he just lay there,
immobile, like a Calder without
a breath of air to move it.
In fact, he had become an it,
and those of us who knew him
noted how poorly
itness suited him, his pale demeanor
resembling nothing he’d been.
Real life, we agreed, was okay,
but we preferred this life now being made
of words, as he had, uncovering
what we didn’t know was there.
We were his friends, and wanted
to throw light onto the ashes
before they became unstoried and urned,
loose sentiments strewn in a field.
But he was dead, goddammit, and now
it was about us. We’d toast
a few drinks to him back at the house.
He’d be in our thoughts until he no longer was.