He died in Miami. Él otro en Paris.
I died in Denver just as impending rain became realized.
In retrospect, it's a surprise the Cubs and Rockies weren't delayed
and no surprise Sammy Sosa hit two homeruns.
I died on my way home from a matinee
like Vallejo, on a Thursday.
Dressed like my friends, who were drinking on the patio
of the Falling Rock just blocks away from Coors Field,
fetal raindrops hit my exposed skin like glass needles as I
motorcycled away from beer-fueled debates on the day's baseball.
I lived twenty-nine with no intent to see past thirty.
I was dead. Blood, red as the STOP sign I had run,
sponged into the black macadam of Mariposa Street.
Wailing emergency vehicles mourned my passing
convincing aquamarine strangers to halt my dying.
I died on a Thursday—not as valorous as Vallejo.
I died in the rain—not as judiciously as Justice.
Like the Colorado Rockies,
my next baseball game was not in Denver.
And, unlike their poetic corpses,
I have turned my death into verses.
PRORADER
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