Life. It Goes.

Overnight, you're no one at all.

Someone said  lots of things happen after you die,
only you are not included. (Funny.)

The woman in charge of protocol,
the man deciding new items, the boss who conducts the show,
peons, too, can dance;
and, true, the single dwarfed rebel
graying among tinbers—

we, too,  shrivel by day and shine to daisies.

My friend is almost ninety,
drives haltingly, his blinders in place,
neck fused.

One day, he'll kill someone,
I warn.

But no one takes away his keys.

What happens after we die?
Baseball games happen. Beer spills.
Someone chokes on a hotdog and is saved
by a nurse who becomes a hero.

It's all there: nightly news.