Posthumous

If I were to drop dead tomorrow,

I would be dead —

having lived six decades

in just three and a half.

If I were in the ICU today,

fighting for the last of my measured breaths

before time finally quit on me,

I’d be walking into death

having written half a millennium of poetry —

unsolicited trauma,

baggage dressed in glitter,

missed kisses,

lost chances,

shared orgasms,

rented intellects.

Piece them together,

and you’ll see the life I lived —

the travesties I survived,

and the desperate hope

that someone, someday,

would know it all.

If I were to drop dead tomorrow,

I would be dead —

having lived a plurality of lifetimes

in a single stretch,

without ever being discovered —

somewhat like the carbon

that gave up long before

they made diamond of it.

And once you’re done,

diamond and platinum are but elementaries

you’ve no appetite for.

For what does the dead know of acclaim?

What does the corpse

know of validation?

If I were to drop dead tomorrow,

and as I soared for one final flight

had to ask myself —

Did any of it matter?

Was it worth it?

I would have an answer.

Definitive.

Affirmative.

If you were to drop dead tomorrow —

Would you, though?