Overread at Booth 3: The Places Where We Wish to Die

The Places Where We Wish to Die



We think of all the places we want to die:
In Paris, while dancing down the Champs-Elysees in the rain,
Or frozen into a permanent fixture on the side of Mount Everest,
                where other climbers will nod their respect as they
                 pass our Zen formation on their way to the peak.

 Perhaps we wish to die being gored while running with the bulls
                in Pamplona, after a night’s drinking and unleashing our inner                    
                Ernest Hemingways,

or perhaps we wish to die in the arms of our lover, or beloved, or loved one,
the one we have loved for decades, or met just recently, or just

                someone.

 And that’s it, then, isn’t it?

 Because the place that we do not wish to die,
is some grey room in some grey bed with some grey pillow for our one grey head:
the curtains drawn and the door shut and nobody around us to
note our passing, until someone knocks on the door the next day,

to find us, already gone,

               only to push one button, to call for nameless others to wrap us
                and remove us, and make ready our grey room

for another grey head:

                someone else

 who will never be trampled in Pamplona,
nor frozen on Everest,

                 nor dance down the Champs-Elysees

                                 in the rain.






MR
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