In that last moment, he didn’t hesitate
to take a call. A call intruding the time of last supper, final
words, the time of spent candles.
And from the other side, a voice, caffeinated and well recited:
May I speak with a Mr. or Mrs. Cobain, or whomever
makes decisions concerning your phone service?
He brushed the cigarette ash from his Levis.
Still rehearsing in his mind his letter of fear, the final
offering of fame -- how it felt to feel one’s self fade.
Answered politely, while the gun, loaded
and sweaty, stood at his side. Admitted to being the mister;
respectable mister rock star, press legend voice
of a disassociated generation reported to no longer stand
to be ridiculed, be about-faced on by car phone parents
fucking their lawyers’ fax/voice/data...
Great. Are you satisfied
with your long distance service?
His breath was slow, ink fresh on the tips
of his fingers, “Sorry, I don’t have time for this.
I’m in the middle of something.”
Click.
(Published: Comstock Review, Fall 1997)
