by Rochelle Ratner
(1948-2008)
He stays in bed all day, except for taking a shower, going to the bathroom and making something to eat. He’s set up a webcam and is asking for donations. One thrust and she lifts her head from the pillow the maid’s once again laid out in the wrong direction. She reads the article again, thinking of Warhol. Then she reads a third time.
Poets, fans of poetry, and readers of this Web site mourn the death of Rochelle Ratner whose prose poems enlightened us, shocked us, and charmed us--as did she. --Editor.
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