The Night Farrah Fawcett Died

Her eyes flutter,
TV snow angel, station identification
at the close of the broadcast day. 
I can’t remember if I cried

There’s a kid
In Steelers pajamas
trapped in an ambering polaroid
the kids eyes are green, but the picture’s faded, 
not faded: shifted red, desaturated,
and it’s hard not to remember the world that way --
Like if you looked up from the School of Athens
the dome of the sky would have cracks in the plaster;
that history’s alive.

And the lights go dim
along the midway --
Midnight Madness 
has gone away --
Everything you love
will be replaced 
with something less fun
and more expensive.

And somewhere, over the berm
across the garage walls
of every red-blooded American boy
they’re burying her 
in a red, blue and silver tracksuit,
each star embroidered by hand
by the women of wrestling and 
Wonder Woman’s stuntman,
I can’t remember if I cried

Steve Austin got lost in quicksand 
and the Bigfoots came out of their caves
and bayed -- 
they sing a song of Alderaan
from the back of an old forty-five
the night Farrach Fawcett died.