Biding Time in a Treehouse with Princess Di
I’m living in the rotted tree-
house in the park, collapsing
under a growing pile of leaves
and branches. I’m here to not
tell you that I removed your
dog’s electric fence collar as
an act of neighborly defiance.
I’m here until next Thursday,
plus one or two years. Or until
my greening floorboards turn
to mush and fall away, taking
me along for the descent.
Four Princess Di biographies
are occupying my time, but I
still can’t decide who had her
killed. She’s just a collection
of atoms now, reacquainting
herself with the universe. Not
much more than another check
on the list of famous deaths
and the list of people that wore
something with sewn-on rhine-
stones. I bet she also successfully
completed multiple jigsaw puzzles.
Everything is now a challenge.
You would think that I would be
satisfied with that fact, but it’s like
settling for a used pair of dentures
or a used treehouse. Nothing about it
feels clean or fair. I once read that in
every home in Switzerland there is a gun.
This is a way for me to introduce
my life’s beginning and end, my
payment plan for preserving baby
birds. Please send organic coffee
beans and another royal biography.