(this is my #3 poem. I am not quite ready to leave my poet. The original follows this one)

hello, how are you?

this fear of being what it is:
dead.

at least it is not out on the street, she
is careful to stay indoors, she is
pasty mad and sits alone before her tv sets,
her live full of canned, mutilated laughter.

her ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as her relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in her quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.

dogs standing behind fences.

men silent at the windows.

///

hello, how are you?

this fear of being what they are:
dead.

at least they are not out on the street, they
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,
their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

their ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as their relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in your quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.

a dog standing behind a fence.

a man silent at the window.

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