Calisthenics, week 8

Here's the product of playing with the idea of my death, courtesy of "Imagining the unimaginable," ex. 2, p. 203, Writing Poetry:

It will be simple.
In an armchair in a living room.
People will gasp.
Maybe even scream.
But they all will have seen it coming.

There's an old clock ticking and the television is on.
Somebody's in the kitchen
cooking. Probably the wife,
maybe my sister,
amidst conversation on politicians and how much
they suck.

I will maintain a wry smile and bear a button-up collared shirt,
non-distinct in color, probably plaid.
A Christmas tree will adorn the room,
lights flashing--on, off, on, off...

And a baby will laugh at a colorful toy,
while batting at it
in her playpen.