Jane Whitfield Is Dead - Thought Industry

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.

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

sad.

I’ll mourn her softly

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

twenties.

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.