NOBODY’S GONNA MISS ME WHEN I’M GONE

I submitted a piece to the New Yorker
because I wanted to be like you—
but they rejected it because I was still alive.
What, I can't be famous until after I've died?
Is man no more than just some staring manikin,
waiting to be dressed in a store window?
Is that the secret to your success?
The clothes really do make the man, I guess.