Monday, April 3, 2017

the cold earth

there isn't much left
at the end
to divide,
a birdcage, empty,
lined still with newsprint
from nineteen eighty-five.
glasses, books,
photographs.
who wants his shoes?
the dirty magazines
under the bed?
the staples loose
between each thigh.
the money is just enough
to put him under,
a polite ceremony,
discounted for service
rendered
in the navy. flag
draped,
a spot saved not far
from
the eternal flame.
who comes, at this late
stage, to hear the volley
of gunshot,
those who never called,
or gave visit?
children with children
who never
knew him, and yet hold
the same name.
who stands near, besides
me, to watch him slip
into this cold dug grave.

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