Ambrose Bierce walked into Mexico
one day, and was never seen again.
That was surprising enough, but
more so, he left no epitaph, the least
you would expect from a writer.
In retrospect, perhaps he was
the smarter one, for I know othersl
who have spent countless hours
trying to devise the perfect epitaph,
knowing they never quite got it right.
I almost fell victim to that trap,
but avoided it the moment that
I realized that regardless of what
I might so carefully select, it is
my heirs who will have the final say.
It was tacky then, it’s epitome
and six decades and unknown views later
it hasn’t changed at all.
You don’t expect tackiness
to accrete, yet like a black hole
this is irrefutable evidence it has.
To say it is garish to insult
the term, since it is so much more,
beyond anything the term can describe.
It has grown uglier, something not
thought possible, yet here it is.
You cannot fathom why Mexico,
which truly lies just south of the border,
has not filed a diplomatic protest
over this quintessential insult.
In Jalisco state, you imagine
A thousand Pedro’s would cringe
if they knew what had been wrought
in their name, and the South Carolina
state police, you think, they just up the road
knowing the wiser travelers will step
on the gas in a vain attempt to escape.