R.I.P.

First, we’ll do away with the waist.
We know you loved that knuckle
of hip, the nothing stem
of waist, but, we’re sorry,
its obsolescence was built in.

Then, we’ll do away
with the nicknames, silly and regional;
anyone still living is embarrassed.
We did away with the brother,
dead since the war, and we’ll do away with
the upside-down tomato plant
by not watering it—there are more
important things to do.

We’ll do away
with the job, then
the cruises, that brocade jacket you put on
when feeling fancy.
We’ll do away with feeling fancy.

We’ll do away with the car. That
one might hurt.
We’ll do away with hair, and your feet
will go toe by toe until
the inevitable difficulty emerges,
humiliating you
for a while.
Then we’ll do away with
shame and we’ll do away with privacy—
what need have you?
We’ll do away with dramas and thrillers.
Comedies only
to move the days which become nights
or vice versa or what day is it
and where did they go—
your own bed, your bowels, your eyes?

Last, we’ll do away with that dog
because you liked it
much more than we did.