Chronic Mal’aria

He wasn’t all wrong as a prophet
Of his own demise, that Vallejo.
He was right he would die in Paris.

He died on Friday, not a Thursday,
But hey, that’s only off by a day.
He missed the season—spring, not autumn.

None of this is important of course.
What a silly way to read a poem
On death, and a young man’s poem at that.

The young always remember their deaths.
They’ve often invented sacks of them
That they take out and play with like dolls.

Only the soldiers and suicides,
Maybe the murdered, resemble them.