Intimations on Mortality by Linus VanPelt
Snoopy's going to die.
He's older now. Hips are stiff.
Whimpers when he walks.
Most times he curls
into a small package of pain
deep in the hollow of himself.
I'll remember the blurry flare of legs
as he pranced about the grassy breadth
of Charlie's backyard, snout ever skyward,
inhaling heaven. And wasn't it odd
how often that strange yellow bird tumbled
from its crooked birch, descended in clumsy
spirals, awkwardly landing on Snoopy's head?
Under the drape of night,
adorned in pilot's helmet and goggles,
he'd sneak across empty lots and playgrounds dodging
imagined grenade explosions and tiptoe
over hopscotch squares that doubled as minefields.
His war will end soon.
We'll bury him at dusk besides his splintered red house.
Schroeder will bring his piano,
play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
Charlie, Lucy, and Sally will wait
for me to say something comforting and wise.
I'll take Snoopy's body,
wrap it in my blanket and lay
the still bundle in the earth.
Thumb sucking will never soothe that ache.
© 2004 Scott T. Summers
|