I'm better at eating linguini alone.

I met a man once
who told me about a friend
he had who clipped a truck
spun his sports car, and died
on New Year's Eve
three years beforehand
though he left out the part
about the booze and coke, of course.
(No one ever mentions
those little details in stories
of misfortune, but they are to be
expected eight times out of ten.)

He asked if I'd ever seen
the metal cross on the side
of that stretch of highway.
I lied and said I did, and after
speaking to him that day
I did indeed spot it
at sixty miles-an-hour.

"I drove it down into the ground
with a hammer in the spot where he died
and every six months
I go back to spray paint it gold again."

"That's nice of you."

What else is one supposed to say in that scenario?
Judging from the stories this man had told me
he hadn't learned much from his friend's death
so my sympathy only went so far.

Besides, that thing has since
peeled, rusted, and disappeared.
Well, with the economy and all...

I hope no one makes the mistake
of a pointless post-mortem promise
when my time comes.

That slap must cross
the bounds of Life and Death
to reach its intended face
and I'll have enough problems in Hell.