Barbara Morgan, Self-Portrait 1931 by Thomas Lipschultz 3/2/99 My husband is an interior decorator -- a worthy occupation for a man who favors only red and white paint -- a Japanese patriot, of sorts, but a born American and totally insane -- his paints are always lying about, in much the way his pants linger 'round -- and lately he's been purchasing more of each, and wearing dozens of pants each day and buying dozens of paints each day, until today, when he died most tragically -- his layers of pants became too thick. He tripped. He fell. He's now in Hell. In much the manner of a klutz, he threw the paints he held, he cursed the pants he wore -- and I, I was splattered first with white upon my left face, then with red upon my left cheek, drowning the white -- I raised my arm by instinct, but lo, it only reddened too. And hubby -- sweet mad hubby -- He tripped. He fell. He's now in Hell. The floor, a banquet for termites, collapsed beneath him like craypaper, leaving in its wake the gaping hole of a grave. I stare down upon him, and witness his eyes closing, closing, closed. His last vision was of me, eyes concerned, face like a clown's, grieving before his fires ever began. He tripped. He fell. I see him now in Hell.