Modern Life

I died at the age of 68.
I was killed by commercials
and side-line reporters.
I died from a fear of death.
I rock'n rolled in quiet places,
and was killed by Pop Country.
Politicians stood over my dead
body and poked at it curiously
before remembering their luncheon
date.
I succumbed to 4 percent annual
returns, and the guy who laughed
in fresh bellows at nothing
particularly funny.
I died from instructions on cereal
boxes, and dogs that barked when
I strolled past their yards.
I died from the smell of make-up
and tampons.
I croaked from heartbreak at 13, 14,
15, 19, 32, 46, and 54.
Televangelists sitting in gold chairs
sealed my casket with hairspray
and lip gloss.
I died from working over grease
and under cars.
I died while watching my children die.
I died at the computer, under florescence,
in air-conditioning.
I was killed by long lines and waiting
while standing.
I died not knowing what I should have
known. I died having given less
than I could have.
I died from a panic of the heart.
A heart that knew what a good heart
should be.
I died like you'll die,
still and sober, without sound,
remembering none of these.