On John Lennon’s birthday,
a flood of tributes and grief. I keep
my it-could-have-been-worse relief
to myself. True, any homicide’s a tragedy, the loss
of a great talent even more so,
but it was Bowie who gave my odd
teenage self permission to exist,
hot starman I both lusted for
and yearned to be.
The killer got his list down to those two.
Bowie and Lennon were friends,
had worked together. Both were fathers,
both liked walking New York streets
without fanfare or guard.
As my mother and I sat enthralled,
Bowie, without makeup or prosthetic,
twisted his beauty into a heart-wrenching
Elephant Man. The killer watched
from the front row. Got his program signed.
Some murderers have crowed about the power
they felt turning person into corpse,
the joy at watching life drain from the eyes.
Perhaps this killer felt his omnipotent thrill
earlier, the names laid out before him,
pen in his hand like the wand of a god.
(Some reason? Eenie meenie?)
Choosing among stars.