(For Ron Padgett inspired by one of his poems) I know a man who died while writing a poem. Or perhaps it was not the man at all but his wife who died while the man wrote a poem about her. She was stuffing a hen humming a tune oblivious as death arrived. She tumbled backwards upon the linoleum floor, her right hand clutching onto one more chance at filling an empty cavity. I know a bird that died in flight for the bird flew right into my open window as I drove down the Florida Turnpike at 80mph humming to the radio oblivious as death fell upon my lap and white feathers settled upon the black dashboard. I know.
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