This dead thing
is really not my
thing, never fully
appreciating how
empty it would
be
This dead thing
all around and
inside of
me
(for example)
Who knew dust has
teeth and it gnaws
even at my pale thin
voice still banging
around the empty
rooms of
me?
I thought this dead
thing would simply
surround me, would
take my last breath
like a flower and
I would sink into
the dirt and no,
of course not,
why would it
hurt?
This dead thing
who knew how
capricious
it would be?
I bet you thought
it would at least be
reverent, like a man
holding his hat
a grey fedora
over his heart
as if to say not mine
no not this time but
I will look down
I will study the
ground, this dead
thing, passing
before
me