Whatcham’callit
She’s dead, he said.
So’s he, said she.
Kicked the bucket, he said.
Bought the farm, said she.
Under the clover, he said.
Crossed over, said she.
Iced with a heater, he said.
Sleeps with the fishes, said she.
Taken for a little ride, he said.
Gone to the other side, said she.
Flat-lined, he said.
Out of mind, said she.
To a better place, he said?
By heaven’s grace, said she.
Under the sod, he said.
To be with God, said she.
To Paradise? he said.
Would be nice, said she.
Could it be? he said.
Could it not? said she.
Jim Culleny; © 7/14/2007