There’s something passive to be said of hollow men
As if a smart cookie like you couldn’t figure that out
They stand, they sit, they eat, they sleep,
Love to them is an expectation
Sex , a movement moderately desired
Like feeling the urge to take a walk on a cool, breezy afternoon
Who should they find to bother them?
They read papers and may remark on regrettable lives
Perhaps even support a starving African child
Cradled in the arms of a woman with a cross on her neck and a tear in her eye
A few pennies a day is all the cost of redemption
Seems like a fair trade
These are men who fall asleep after most ejaculations
Roll over and prepare for the next day
Soon at hand with a moderately priced, sensible looking alarm clock
The analog kind with real bells
Once every so often, he hits the snooze once or twice
But only so often, and never more than twice
These are women who cook easily out of books
They can chop an onion and pour it in without so much as a drop
Afterwards, they sit down with a magazine or new hardcover
Legs curled together, but with an oddly straight back
Sipping something brightly colored
With Chopin playing (not too loud) in the background
This is they, who we aspire to be
Parents to poets and clones alike
Who love because it’s expected
And don’t feel the need to go to church because it seems impractical
Yes, indeed, there’s a Bible on the bookshelf
But it isn’t like they’re going to waste time filling in the family tree
And on the day that he dies
Sometime around year 74.6
It’ll be a nice funeral, with a nice tombstone
Nothing too extravagant
They wouldn’t like that
Besides, we wouldn’t want to spend too much more than the funeral insurance
I visit the grave every now and then
And always like to leave a few sunflowers or daisies
A simple name, a few dates
It’s pretty in a way, if you like that sort of thing
The graveyard people keep everything tidy
She’d like it that way.