When Asked How I Want to Die

I reply in a surreal poem

Corner of Broadway by Mark Tulin

I want to die with fresh-cut flowers
on my chest,
during a sunny morning
at the corner of Redondo,
where I had been drinking ginger tea,
leaving a half-eaten vegan donut on my plate,

and the barflies across the street
were getting loaded, telling crude jokes,
taking long, smoky cigarette breaks,
and eating fried egg sandwiches on toast,

and a cute little girl,
who was walking with her father,
stops and looks at me curiously,
points and says,

Is that man dead, daddy?

and the father replies,

It sure looks that way.

And nobody moves me from the chair —
no fanfare or taps played,
no one changes their routine or calls the cops,
the coffeehouse playlist is the same,
and the people let me rest in peace,
honored by my somnolent death,