Jane Whitfield Is Dead by Thought Industry
[I) July 10th, 1993]
Jane's clenched legs writhe. Soot dress dance flannel
Sheets. Inane lush that can't decide, but I'm snared
Here. I wake flustered in her bedroom that I can't
Escape. I weep here's something that can never change.
This marriage is make believe. Cook slop meal; and
Sew t-shirt; and wash my plate; and make bunk bed. I
Never asked these things, because Jane's now dead.
Jane's found dead, long dead. Left me to this lonely bed.
Hoard of locust mad.
[II) September 17th, 1995]
Jane floats down the aisle. Voluptuous cream
Wedding dress. Family and friends tight smiles. Razor
Near. "I do," and I promise on the bottle lover's grave.
She sighs, "our timeless loyalty is branded change."
This marriage is make believe. Mow front lawn; and
Wash sports car; and cut slab wood; and pain garage;
But we're not a sexist pair. Because Jane's now dead.
Because Jane's been dead. Because Jane's found dead,
Long dead. Stranded to this frigid bed. Pacific bottom
I'll mourn her softly
[III) May 3rd, 2043]
A-frame by Winchester stream. Trimmed hedge
With daisies. Fields. Stained plank ceder fence. My
Gramps' ponies. She'll shit a brick. I bet. Our house to
Raise a family. She'll shit. I bet. We'll grow old
Together. Snail slow and ancient gray. Racquetball on
Tuesday morning. Playing eucker. Sipping tea; and
Watch the sun die from our rocking chairs. We'll gum
Sweet oatmeal holding dishpan hands. She'll shit a
Brick. I bet. To watch our children married. She'll shit.
I bet. To see us when we're ninety, sleeping in on church
Sunday. Playing our dated CD's that we bought in my
[IV) January 25th, 2051]
This marriage is make believe. Now I'm crying on
Her body as she passed away without me, and left me this
Bitter old man; because Jane's now dead, because Jane's
Been dead. Because Jane's found dead. My wife's now
Dead. My wife's found dead. Jane's left dead.