that the lizard has died.
Belly up this morning: tiny claws clasped
across leathery belt,
unshriven, awaiting
coffinette and eternity.
Mourners will not include the daily
four crickets – no keening from them.
Curious, though, the small blanched
body next to the water dish:
traveler dehydrated a hundred
yards from oasis.
All was as is should be – yesterday; but,
maybe the New Year with promises
of vituperation from Washington,
crassness from Hollywood was all too much
for a shrunken soul.
Perhaps, though, the loss was felt
long ago: in a life adorned with
tempered plastic,
fabricated sunshine begets instinctual
absence from survival.
And now how to memorialize he who
once ate his own tail?
Final kindness for him who abandoned
existence this cold morn: a garden grave,
marked by logs, leaves, and a makeshift
eulogy.
Now, to tea.
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