By: Lisa Marie Basile
Three months ago Plato came up to me and asked how many
bundles of ribbon and flowers and I'd like, he said I would want to select
each color carefully and ask for just the right amount
he said, if you let it,
the world is gonna think you're dead
he said, follow his directions
four visitors will come toward your box:
intemperance, unrighteousness,
cowardice and ignorance, and they will
hold your hands
don't be afraid, ignorance only feels warm,
but your formaldehyde
might crack off
this is what you want, he said
i am in a coma
i listen to the pit-pats from down the
hall with the worn Victorian rug
I hear Forgiveness coming but he's slow
cause he's got nothing to lose
I didn't know he'd be here
and he sweeps right past the guestbook
there isn't a handful of scribbles
i wonder who saves this sad memory
i am in coma
and he sits with gentle eyes and
somewhere between empathy and pity
and he feels right
between warm and cold
he says he can't do a thing about biology
or any divine clock
i'll wake up on my own
as the charity-hearse pulls in
Plato's guests take leave
and i can't describe the temperature of being free
