“… Nothin Up My Sleeve”

—Bullwinkle

When you die

you cannot know

you’re dead and no one

tries to tell you either.

A small tree

of memories rustles

in your head, while

a Motown song just wheezes.

The last thing you remember

is a doctor shrugging off the cure.

You feel for the light switch

but only find that token

doorless door. The quiet grows

like a kind of brightness—

and the sound that sounds

is not a sound, unless

you count the sun

that never rises. Sadder still:

you’re not alone

but there ain’t no way

to prove it—just like now

above the ground, you’re lonely

and there’s no one

to undo it.