Life is loss
nothing more
nothing less
It strips you of
that phantom
the well-tended self
sells your memories
on the street
for pennies
leaves your old worn shoes
in the entryway
as a warning
as if to say
those sad shoes will go no further
than the funerary urn
So I choose to mock loss
to dance in damaged shoes
and with each extravagant gesture
to shout out
Let there be wine
food and song
Let there be no grief
upon my demise
only mirth
Only dancing
music and mirth.
This one, I think, is dedicated to the man known here as spysgrandson.