by Martin A. Ramos

Marilyn Monroe died, a phone clutched in her hand.
Her precious life reduced to this: a single phone call.
And just the operator there to comfort her, in this,
her final hours before the curtain falls, and say,
“Sorry, wrong number.”

Her eyelids falling,
her words slurring into silence,
and then the darkness.

Naked on her bed,
beautiful even in death,
the lady sleeps.

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