Death’s Quota

The flowers all have scattered,

  borrowed feelings cry out loud

 

Mock funeral of celebration,

  grief false beneath their shrouds

 

The mourning congregation,

  to the tavern marched in step

 

A ruse to the departed,

  with each toast his memory wept

 

His friends then hugged his enemies,

  his wife and girlfriend kissed

 

Through the glass a raven watches,

  taking names without a miss

 

A ‘last call’ shouted boldly,

  and all glasses drained of lies

 

As two wings beat out a roll call

  —death’s quota flying high

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

 

 

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