Foxes for pillows at the head of his bed
and knock-knock joke eul’gies now that he’s dead.
He died as he lived–face down in his soup
or crying alone in a telephone-booth.
Sometimes he’d smile at cars passing by
while walking the freeway’s concrete divide.
I had him over last Tuesday for lunch.
He ventriloquized broccoli but it didn’t say much,
only to floss at least once each new moon
and never to trust lion cubs to baboons.
Now that he’s buried six-feet underground
I admit that it’s lonely without him around.
