1.
I want to die in a bookstore.
Don’t wake me up if these volumes are dreams.
Words are beautiful.
I feast upon paperbacks
as if I am eating my last meal,
all day long, if I could.
I don’t care if I get hay fever
from the dust & spores of delicate archivals.
Pass me more fabric gloves & face masks.
Give me a comfy chair & an end table
with lots of light. I’ll spend the night
on my last day on Earth
reading away, growing blissful.
You may not notice I’ve passed on,
cradling books upon my lap,
my legs crossed, laying back,
smiling, eyes still open,
in absolute wonderment.
2.
My native Texan OU roommate
prefers to die
in a Sephora—craving
a timely, pampered end to a brief life.
She dreams she will
finally expire
after dripping wet,
dipping skinny from the
Nancy Best Fountain
In Klyde Warren Park,
then towel-dried,
lathering her face
with free samples
at the Galleria in Big D
then, the big O
(oh, finally!!) while vibrating
on a massage Barcalounger,
all at once, having the feels,
feeling so beautiful,
cared for & relaxed
before her final breath.