And you were informed early on...

And you were informed early on
To the time and place of your death.
It was displayed on telephone booths
Next to photocopy advertising
A local band that have already played
The show and departed the stage.

Men walked quickly into telephone
Booths to pass the news onto the men
Awaiting the news. The magistrate
Declared its certainty on a national holiday.

Your friends claimed to have premeditated
Its occurrence in dream prior to a visit
Where you lived in exclusion.

The night sang so quietly it was hard
To hear exactly what was being said,
But between the whistle in the pine leaves,
The thin strands bundled together as so
Many band players are in stadium field,
You could almost hear them. You
Almost could.

And how should I face the morning,
Brown and disturbed and whispering about
The financial times, the lives of those who
Have passed beyond the caring of loan
Officers and the people who profit from them?

Should the coffee in its pot be ignored?
Should the cat be refused fresh water and
Should I refute the local headlines
In the local paper splayed unconsciously across the table?

(It itself is a thing of little importance,
and why should I care if my death therein
has an update as to the impending time
and place when I've been informed quite well,
quite well, quite well.)

So many times the pine cones have fallen
In my lifetime, I don't need reminding.

* * *

But I have forgotten all the important things; I have fallen asleep in the bow
And the wind rustles against my frayed and singed leisure jacket
Only to remin--and perhaps you as well, as you stand there with a lute and listen
For the once forgotten tune--only to remind that what has fallen before
Is there to assume a post and at that post kindly align
Itself with the unknowing, the unconquerable, and the tired lament

Played out in the synagogues, the Calvinist bunkers deep in the canyon.
The pirate ship found so much beauty and its denizens witnessed love
But it was reportedly in the desert and, so, bereft of love and life
And the rain that washes away all memory of dust.

How shall I kneed the dough so that it resumes the shape?
And how shall I set the oven temperature so that the bread
In the pan
Will rise to assume the shape. How should I know?
It's almost beyond me to fill the salt shaker thought I know quite well
How it's done. The car is in the driveway and that is where my friends
Claimed my death took place.

Not in the driveway. Not in the parking lane next to the lilac bushes,
Much like the one I’ve planted in the barren yard next
To my new house.

And it isn't at the hospital, across from the millionaire's house.
I could find peace in this garden, if only...if only...if only...

The wind keeps me away though I am groggy with the
Remains of an overwhelming sleep that I cannot conquer,
Cannot subdue. And yet...Yet was that song playing
On the loudspeakers in the village concord? It says
Something though I cannot put my finger on it.