Death of a Poet

Today, the driver of a lowly hearse,
the one that holds your own forgotten verse,
will lead a most peculiar parade
of shining soldiers, tan coats, black and gray.

A week has past your expiration date—
a shriveled tongue lies; days ago it ate.
Your bones will soon be swallowed by the ground,
your body knows it’s a compost mound.

Your gooseflesh, sickly pale and white as ash,
your blue snake veins, each charcoal black eyelash,
your purple lids, show no signs of decay—
bent hands, knuckles, and fingers rest and pray.

The driver has a place he must get to.
He has a job, has a tomb waiting for you.


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