She wants to save the palo verdes
in her yard, she wants to get pregnant,
she’s waving her hands, wanting us
to kill the two palo verde beetles, long
as ring fingers, mating on her porch.

Her new husband jokes about moving the lovers
to a neighbor’s yard, talks about a shovel,
insecticide, but nobody moves, only
the male in his black armor, the female
underneath, shaking open her gray skirts.
                        

My wife’s the best-looking person
at this party.  I’m second-best.   
Someone’s bald mother slumps
in her wheelchair, surprised to be
a memento mori.  Their arthritic feet
like satyrs’ hooves, others keep
losing their flip-flops as they do
the mash-potato & sing “Do 
You Love Me?”  We don’t need no 
stinking paranormal urban fantasies,
but doesn’t anyone want to leave
a good-looking corpse anymore? 

All the poets my age are now 
writing about death.  No more
heavy-breathing, no more sexual healing 
or swooning at life’s infinite possibilities.  
“Death,” wrote the poet, “be not proud.”
I’d like to add, “At least be stylish
or try to smell nice.”  Don’t feel bad.
It’s not you. It’s the formaldehyde.