Sorry, I don't have any funny poems.
I have one, but it didn't fit.
This is called "Leaving the City"
and it's about a friend of mine who died about six years ago.
"Leaving the City".
The blacktop hisses.
It's all desert, dust, rock, no soft bed to lie in.
The sun's still up, it tugs the sky,
wincing its heat of destruction, its wandering eye.
Fading clouds, the night birds rude cry, and I, as
barren as this windswept land, panic and scream.
The man, see his face up on the floor.
See his hands resting in peace.
His pale skin.
Who has sucked out the feeble breath of the long time
attempter?
The burn and crack of dope flame conjured like instant magic.
Who has shut the mouth vane behind his teeth?
Transformed the brain from word and sizzle
to that keening silence?
His path blown to smithereens, its rubble finally stock still.
His body stories absorb our lurid history,
but he can't know that now.
Meanwhile, the odor of spilled blood on cement, hair,
patched together bones, the smog of dying alone,
by accident or by design, the doors and windows locked.
Who can stop the crawl clutch of hand on arm?
Rubber tube, or cloth, or defeat, limbs
dragged piece by piece to float in white noise?
A fan whirs.
The soul always goes first.