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1 | --- | ||
2 | title: 'Death's Trumpet' | ||
3 | project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' | ||
4 | epigraph: 'So Death plays his little fucking trumpet. So what, says the boy.' | ||
5 | epigraph-credit: 'Larry Levis' | ||
6 | ... | ||
7 | |||
8 | He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing, \ | ||
9 | top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine \ | ||
10 | begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese. | ||
11 | |||
12 | He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining \ | ||
13 | it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized \ | ||
14 | it was a terrible metaphor. \ | ||
15 | He practiced for six hours a day---what else to do? | ||
16 | |||
17 | Death looks at himself in the mirror as he plays. \ | ||
18 | The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules. \ | ||
19 | Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving \ | ||
20 | but he'll never know unless a stranger is polite enough. \ | ||
21 | Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone. | ||
22 | |||
23 | He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later. \ | ||
24 | He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy \ | ||
25 | since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two. \ | ||
26 | The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke. \ | ||
27 | He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there, | ||
28 | |||
29 | there's only a little boy with dead eyes. So far so good. \ | ||
30 | He's playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him \ | ||
31 | and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid's good. \ | ||
32 | Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand. | ||