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