Coming in home
from a longish trip,
I found a body
in my house. It was mine,
since nobody else lives
(or lived) there. I figure
if it ever used to be anyone
else's, it was mine now and
I didn't want it. My responsibility
ends nowhere. In all my life,
it's been mine to deal with,
like a cross or a burden of proof,
always. This fucking thing
won't be doing that anymore,
I guess.
The scene
of the evidence
keeps changing, since
every room I go into
the body is there.
Sometimes
it comes back to life,
making it all the harder
to explain. Stiff limbs
limbering and it feeds
itself automatically.
It gets by, apparently,
with a little help from my
mind and heart, and
I admit it's a little sad, now.
I picture it still alive,
whenever it's not. I just feel
like that would be a happier
way to look after it. Keep it
going, and fit, in between
rigor mortis bouts, where I
assure you.
Dragging that thing around
is no joke.
Even for a man my size, I
could use a little cooperation
from any body
that expects
to be in every room
I go.
Honestly, I
don't even know why it wants
to.
A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.
but aren't they all random?
Friday, November 05, 2021
Who dies in a place like this?
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