Composing Still Drifting Off

One more poem, a midnight poem,
A night poem might be good. So,
Marilyn Monroe, Norma

Jeane Mortenson Baker, died
That day, early in the month
Of August, one lifetime gone,

Who knows what is still to go,
Who knows what’s still and what is?
Nothing’s still. Nothing much is.

There should be a special term,
Reward for a ghost, a ghost
Of a name that’s past the point

Of having lived as a ghost
Longer than with that living
Host. Take your age when you die.

If anyone can recall
Your name, any name you host
Or have hosted—Marilyn,

Norma Jeane—still on that day
When as many days have passed
As you, host to the name, lived,

Your ghost name graduates
To whatever that term is.
With how good record keeping

Has gotten, and how often
Later generations live
Longer than their parents did,

Should be lots of candidates,
But not many like Monroe,
Dead at thirty-six and still,

Sixty years later, a name
On many actual lips.
Now it’s midnight, in August,

Year probably long gone, if
And when anyone reads this,
Ghosts by then anonymous.