As I Crawled Home to Die
As I crawled home to die.
I finally won the lottery
The uncashed ticket in my fist.
Schiller’s “Ode to Joy”
Played on my radio, Beethoven’s Ninth
Sung by half-crazed German farmers
And their maniacal soprano wives.
“Don’t jazz me, I’m music,” it seemed to say.
Sweet as the roses of Picardy,
The syncopated major third
Timed to echo the last heartbeat
Of Beethoven soaking in his hot tub
To stave off his procrastinated end.
I got to finish this last symphony
Was his rasion d’etre.
Listening to the waves,
I rolled up to my house.
No one there could understand
My English prophecy of doom.
Dogs and people from the future
Moved to let the door open.
And they are lucky not to know
Except their atom of the stars.