I will die, one day I will die
on a day like every other day.
It will be a good day to die, I've decided—
a day when wet rain slicks the sidewalks
and cars with too-bright headlights skid haphazardly on the streets.
I will die young, too young,
and it will be a shame because I will not have had the chance
to clean my messy apartment room,
and marked-up textbooks will litter the floor—
and empty bottles on the desk, and dirty clothes on the bed, and dirty dishes in the sink.
Then friends and friends-of-friends will pass by, rain shoes splashing,
and in the entrance of the High Street CVS, by the red plastic baskets and automatic doors,
on their way to purchase Camel cigarettes and People Magazine,
they'll pick up a newspaper. "How Many Dead and Wounded Soldiers
Ago Did Obama Give Up on Afghanistan?" it loudly reads,
and five pages in, in small print skimmed over by the friends and friends-of-friends smoking
their recently purchased Camel cigarettes and shielding their People Magazines from the rain,
the words Meghan _ is dead—
They'll laugh at some joke, slap each other on the back,
head down High Street to Chipotle, and crack open a beer.
based on vallejo & variations on vallejo