Whistling Saw
for Michael Jackson

certainly passed, any further possibility
of singing, of dancing,
of moon-walking any farther or ever again

if his brain’s no longer in his head, in his body
if his brain is no longer in his brain box,
in its jewelry box
if his brain is in one ice box and his body’s in another

raise the hood and the engine’s missing
such a vehicle unable to run

whether he was fully dead or not
whatever little juice of life might have been left
enough to lift a finger, lift an arm or leg

someone from India or Christ himself
on the way to save the day, the king of pop,
the pop star

too late to restore life or sanity
with his brain missing, with his brain gone

beyond any possibility of restoration or reparation
a mummy already, a figure fit for a museum

far from live, from life
miles from us, left to mourn


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
11:56 a.m. 07.07.09