i saw the most beautiful poem today. just on a scrap of paper, forgettable amongst the pretty postcards and flyers it was pinned by. and i don't really like poetry. i'm too impatient to really read it. or consider it. or think about it. or care. but i think i just found my most favorite poem in the history of all poems (step aside, dr. seuss).
perfection wasted. by john updike.
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market —
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.
life is too short, guys. don't make it forgettable. yolo. (this last line is not part of the poem. in case you were wondering.)
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