When did the globes become a problem show,
or any of the numerous other
back patting circles, quilting bees or shire slick
worshippings whittled in columns of clay?
The true ghosts must be begging,
hoarding hope at the hangar doors
of this studio necropolis.

Inside, manicurists, blind
attendants to the claws of kings,
rein in the growth of death.

“Enjoy it. Light a candle at the shrine
for me. This love of self must be a sin
or have I missed some irony?”

But I know, as I rest my snout
on the cold stone floor
of the cynic yard,
that the answer
is yes.