Never mind the small apartment,
Or the vermin infestation.
Those things mattered little or not at all.
He did not care - for such trifles.
Ignoring. Ignored. Ignorant.
No. The time came when Mr. Wonderful was obliged to find his way through to the
Gateway Arch, St. Louis, Missouri: The Gateway to the next world!
Rather than walk, or drive, or take the train, or commute
Everyday, he chose just a single trip to Missouri.
My guess is, it was in the unmarked white panel van,
Adorned with nothing at all, parked facing away from outside the crematorium.
In fact, it’s not a guess.
Nothing about Mr. Wonderful was left to guesswork: only the appearance of the
Sadness that kept pulling him away from me, from us.
By most accounts, his Art spoke for him.
Unrepentantly unpracticed scribbles labelled “Green Eyes”, “The Red Lady”, “Self-Portrait”.
Throwaway-able: one and all. “Professional Art”, Greg, his neighbor, said.
Really, though, “Self-Portrait” expressed it well enough: a head with an
Empty face. Greg and Jane and Brian, all explained it:
Mr. Wonderful was charming, but ultimately you would notice,
As always, him holding something away. His face: Expressionless-in-Practice.
Isolating. Isolated. Isolation.
Not once could he face it, face us; so my brother and I, we helped push him.
St. Louis, Missouri - pushed his expressionless body through The Gateway to his next world.