Last Poem of John Updike

Requiem
It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
'Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise - depths unplumbable!
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
'I thought he died a while ago.'
For life's a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.

Vonnegut. David Foster Wallace. Mailer. Updike. They're coming a little fast and furious for my comfort, lately. Too many goddamn dead writers, and it's kind of freaking me out a little.