I've checked all the graves from Hellertown to New York,
and not one of them is yours. I no longer believe
things written in stone.
You're probably mixing Snapple Apple
and tequila, nestled in a hammock east of Costa Rica,
waiting for the construction crew to lay the last linoleum tile;
working on your breath capacity every day
(twenty-five feet isn't too far under).
But that damned black book
the one people say was your last
was the one you said to me the publisher would release after
Hell froze over.
And Hell did; I feel colder this year
in Pennsylvania than I ever have.
And maybe you're cold, too,
clutching an afghan in the late-night island breeze,
re-reading your "final" manuscript,
Come back to me, you glorious, beautiful sonofabitch!
send that cold Cohoes wind through my coat and skin,
and freeze, crack the marrow in my bones.