-Marilyn’s arithmetic-                                                                                                                          

                    there seemed to be fewer poems written

                    pertaining to the death of Marilyn Monroe

                    than I assumed there would be by the time I wrote mine.

                    don’t get me wrong.

                    I'd bet every tomdick'nharry in the neighborhood

                    had one to recite whenever you went over there for cheap

                    chardonnay and a platter of assorted cheese samplings.

                    but in the realm of post-death Marilyn poems

                    far from the houses of pesky neighbors,

                    there are fewer than I thought there would be.
                    ––there's Bukowski’s blunt-edged account

                    written in close to real time,

                    (he hears the earthworms pant for her bones)

                    and there's one by Sharon Olds

                    which cuts-to-the-chase, written long after the fact.

                    ––to close-out his poem, Bukowski holds a toast to her memory

                    a full minute with a glass of, I'll guess imported beer, whereas

                    Olds goes after the coroner's attendants.

                    she follows them home when their work is done.

                    It's an unpleasant situation.
                    Sharon says the "ambulance men"

                    attending to her body were never the same.

                    of one she said,–– even his wife and kids looked different.

                    (pity the poor attendants)

                    later,–– on the frontier reserved for unabsolved poets,

                    I found myself writing one inspired after another viewing

                    of "The Seven Year Itch" on television, contributing to the pool where

                    Marilyn's elegies from all sources,–– memorials, eulogies,

                   bad jokes on the Bedford and County Bus, like-minded poems, and

                   requiem masses are summed-up to be recorded for posterity.

                   requiem aeternum dona eis.

                   your pal, William.