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.


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