It was a dark and stormy night…
Perfect weather for an exit
Melodramatic, magnificent,
An appropriate period for a life
In which madness and poetry were so
Nearly allied.
I draw the Don’s bath
The cool lines of his razor slide
under my hands
Past wrists and onward.
With a mirrored reflection,
I rinse the stained blade in pure water,
Dry and fold and put away:
Neat even in extremis.
Watching the clear diffuse pink,
I reflect on other tasteful martyrs;
And how fortunate that Sir was old-fashioned
So he will be able to have an open coffin
A brass-handled jewel-box for his precious.