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The passing of a life is a time to
Be somber.
Looking at him there in the bed,
Unshaven
Dirty
Sharp bones barely covered with flesh
The smell of death oozing from him
It is difficult to imagine
What kind of life he lived.
Perhaps he was a bum
Or a drunk
Or a wife beater.
Or,
Perhaps he was
A painter
An artiste
A pediatrician
Or a teacher.
Perhaps he left a trail
Of angry
Bitter people
Who cursed his name
And reveled in his demise ,
Exonerated from ever worrying about him
Again
Or,
Perhaps
His loved ones weep and hue
Rending their clothes
From the temporary madness
Grief instills,
Holding his belongings to their cheeks
Desperate to clutch a will o' the wisp memory
Closer
Thinking they can wish him back
If they promise God enough.
Because I do not know the answers
To these questions,
I honor his body;
Handling him tenderly
Respectfully
Lifting his limp form
Onto the morgue gurney.
He could have been my friend.
He could have been my relative.
He could have been my lover.
He is gone now
And out of regard for that lost potential
For the light that has gone out
In his eyes
I am somber.
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