Come to Italy and live in the sun, you write.
Serenity is a giant orange
waiting to be plucked from the gnarled tree near
the old tracks.
Look, how the years slip away from us: five, ten, fifteen…
the years disappear in pitiless rain,
while the drudgery of dishes, cleaning, laundry
that spills over the basket,
eats away at our existence.
Your spreadsheet update, those unfinished poems—
just leave them, you say.
Take the Bullet to Pompeii.
Even the ardent cadavers cemented
under glass: entwined lovers, frightened horse, chained dog
have more life in their feral remains,
than we, safe in our chairs.
Let’s not wait for a police escort leading mourners
to our remains, but go now—silence any doubts
you have, before our swollen bodies
join the others in the city of dust.