Ode to Fernando Pessoa

I think there’s never enough time for a single man,

His life sparks, wire-like he shudders,

His tiny eyes memories fade,

Why not split into three tragic men?


Each will have mere seconds

On a pitched stage, his own show.

As a blue curtain lifts (no sound)

One has trouble with his legs,


One has problems with his heart.

“The idea,” says the third, “is to sit

In the audience, smack-middle,

Solo but safe in the herd.”


It’s an old joke in the theater—

Looking out, seeing an empty seat,

Actor one whispers to number two:

“Oh look, there’s a dead subscriber.”

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