Chin Up, Brautigan

[second_hand_sex]

Every Man
Enters a Phone Booth
when he has
decided
it is his time
to die.
He places
several
quarters in the slot
and refuses to open
the
door
until his destination
changes

Well,

I beg to differ
I propose
that Every
Man
is indeed
not an island
but a cubicle of fragile glass
derived of nothing but
heated
sand
dirt.

Every woman
thus
is a ray of light
segmented by clouds
delivering decadence
making us briefly
more appealing
to ourselves.

It would seem
the only honest emotion
when a comrade wishes to die
or worst yet,
does
is to erect a steeple
in dedication to all
the collapsed
dwellings
and
Churches
in our wake.