you’re eating scrambled eggs
with a glass of tomato juice,
thinking about painting the upstairs bathroom
and buying more 39 cent stamps
when your heart
explodes—an ax chopping inside
your rib cage—and you die.
You hear faint voices
and footsteps, but they quickly disappear.
As you try to move your legs and fingers,
try to open your eyes and shout,
you know nothing will work:
what you were
is not what you are.
Maybe it takes months or minutes
or centuries, but the time will come
when a memory flashes
and you see a face or cloud or jar of olives
and that other life
will become a dream you had once
when you used to dream.