DEATH AND ITS VISCERAL AFTERMATH
Just laying there, minding my own business,
trying to nap when all of a sudden
this long line of people approached,
gazed down at me, and singly or in pairs
uttered these totally obnoxious,
highly personal, edited comments:
Got to admit, he looks better
dead than alive.
Bastard still owes me twenty bucks.
We worked together. I did all the work.
Never knew him to be like this....speechless.
Look at those hands. Couldn't keep 'em off me.
What, no children? Well, that's a blessing.
Wonder how long it'll take his wife to remarry.
No religion? Going straight to hell for sure.
Heard he became a poet. Now there's a waste!
Paper said he was only 37. And dyslexic.
Ladies' man? Thought he
was a laddie's man.
Ah, at peace at last. And so are we.
Weapons nut? Like maybe a hit man for the Mafia?
Damned guy could eat and talk at the same time.
Funny man, don't you think? Just not ha-ha funny.
Whatta guy. Never knew when he was kidding.
Only one thing on his mind. Can't remember what.
Thanks for all the laughs, Billy, but you
never did finish cleaning the basement.
Never thought they'd go, let me get some rest.
CROWS PERCHED ON CROSSES
Peering as we walk solemnly toward
the rectangular gap in the ground,
a jury of crows,
judging perhaps which of us
will take the next available opening.
Could be any of us,
all older than the chap this day
being permanently sealed underground.
Crows know a ripe crop
when they see one.
The old man wearing a cross and
speaking in tongues
also qualifies as a candidate,
but the crows favor eying me.
Perhaps it's my
shuffling gait.
Could be the squawking hearing aids.
They know all the signs,
as I try to ignore them,
singing "Onward Christian Soldiers."
They nod, join me in the second chorus.
Bill Roberts wonders how his Oklahoma
grandmother produced 22 children, while he and his wife have had
none, only dogs. He finds the world ever-changing and no longer
tries to keep up, having finally purchased a television set. His
poetry has appeared in about a hundred and fifty online and
small-press magazines over the past thirteen years. He hangs out
near the edge of Broomfield, Colorado. Contact him at marcorosie@comcast.net. |
