the stone of the statue is peeling away
under the boredom of time’s soft trot.
the here of where is more a question
yet unasked, more a when than an answer

our families call this world a forest
but i see four corners and an exit sign.
rotting in the open mirror, i am convinced
of my beauty as a function of its decay

wherefore art thou idiot romeo, come
bring useless aid of your body and your love.
these banal delights have banal ends
let us die here and now not where or when

flee toward the flickering sign, leap
thru exit's threshold into thine granite eternity
of an affordable memorial statue, Made in USA
proclaiming, here rests (face and name eroded)