for Steve Barnes
Anna Nicole’s corpse, the Broward County
medical examiner confided,
fades like honey in mud, a poor bounty
for voices claiming love, yet divided
over where to send her: mausoleum
on a Bahama beach? Set adrift off
the Pacific coast, jeweled museum
aboard a fiery yacht? Why do we scoff,
we fellow humans, our own forms burning
inside out, wasting like old newspapers
in week-long rain? Our smirking heads turning
toward the TV, watching our nights taper
as baseball again beats morbid winter,
thoughts void of our frozen Splendid Splinter.
Roger Armbrust
February 21, 2007
