02.22.2008

Fifty-Five Funerals (a poem by Ryan Smith, whose blog can be found here)

I say death and
you think of your mother crying,
your idiot / savant sister
asking why your new room
smells so good but is so small and if that is why
you aren’t smiling.

Those trees stand so
tall in this winter but
dear God — why?

Your heart stopping is
just a formality for the rest.

Someone drives past the cemetery and
doesn’t even look.

Someday, someone will return them

that little favor.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: