Artie was never pretentious
but impressed by pretense.
His doctor, a Dr. Lord,
flatlines his future.
You’re going down that road.
Do you want to avoid it?
Or are you ready to go?
Artie vows to stay alive until
the Vargas vs. De La Hoya fight.

On Independence Day
he has a one-night furlough
under the pink vaulted ceiling
of his Soundview condo.
Home for a final sunbath.
A last smell of jasmine.
Did he dream of Brooklyn or the Coral Sea?
Did he dream of wife May,
dearly departed before him?

The lantsman down the hall
greets Artie on his return from liberty.
What do you have there? he asks.
Lamb chops, Art says.
But really it was pork loin.

They laid him out in a white sheet
stiff around his ivory body, a totem,
a scrimshaw Eskimo charm
with his perfect teeth set against snow
and his faint sweet death-smell.
I thought he looked free,
let off from his dying chore,
and peaceful, though he hated quiet.

At home, a tiny icon of Archangel Michael,
patron of the sick, soldiers, and policemen,
fell off the shelf when Artie died.
You, angel of insomnia,
disappeared and came back to life.
Is that you washing dishes?
Is it you watching television,
you with your secret loves?
Maybe angels don’t make love;
they just leave the world
on wings of morphine.