Amid lettered plinths, names call out,
Numbers, expiration dates.
Once here, there, and about,
Now in boxes sold at high rates.
Benches upon which to sit,
Staring at images enamel blazed
And plastic flowers never to wilt
Resolute against memory’s haze.
A man drinking from a foam cup
Draws pictures in a book,
Praying his son went not down but up
Snagged by the Christ’s fleshy hook.
Did he take the bait?
No time for a wife or child
To render passions mild
And appetites sate.
Victims of Eros’s bow
Lie head to head, side by side,
Shelved here after one last ride
Their children laid low
Knowing the clock ticks,
While Lucifer plays tricks.
Dad’s vase sits under glass
His beloved Yanks lost the series
In sports there’s no free pass.
Far from the house Ruth built
No answers to my queries.
Born, school, fuck
A gold watch and then you’re out of luck.
Dying with a view of the parking lot,
Burned before you had a chance to rot.
Screw top capped for only eighty eight, ninety five,
Deposited with preacher jive.
Tip toeing angels,
Ignoring demons’ thirsts
Flit above what cannot be slaked,
Chiseled whispers, love with no place to go.
The ravenous God’s hallelujahs always come first.
