Advice Offered The Funeral Goer For When in the Future he Will Sit Down to Grieve
You are dead already. Stand up now.
Walk on. Don’t you see how your feet
are bare of soles, the seams of living having
left? Look. She’s gone. See how her teeth
are yellow, sunken and split as water-logged
paper? Where did you write those vows?
Forty-fours years is more than most.
Another year and that ring turns tarnish,
greens your finger like algae of reason.
The cards will tell your future in their
gold-gilt sympathy swirls. Half-hearted
queens drive swords through their sight.
Don’t grieve what you haven’t lost yet.
Now is the time to bet the pot.
Drop your hands from your eyes.
There is so much still to see.
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written at JewelBox..
Time Taken 6 minutes.
Brain on sunshine, short skirts, high heels and leather jackets. Also, death.
*note: All poems for the month of April are memoir poems in the form of lists.