Obituary ghazal

I want to die like Vallejo, in Paris or New York or
Tokyo in the rain. But first I want a poem in The New Yorker.

We scan the menu. Beef, pork or chicken on rye.
We’ve become a bad cartoon in The New Yorker

I consume films like wine. Cork or screwtop?
I sound like Anthony Lane in The New Yorker

We don’t go to work. Or get out of bed. Instead,
we reread ‘Shouts  & Murmurs’ in The New Yorker

Jane’s afraid of online stalkers. Me too, I say.
Jane’s not from around here. She’s a born New Yorker. 

I call and call. I talk or leave my name on answerphones.
It’s Upperton, after Updike in the index to The New Yorker.

Published in NZ Listener, 20 Feb 2010