Items for the Grave
This man, near to his end,
glimpses the mound up ahead
and cries out: “All this goes with me —
the clean suit they’ll dress the thing in
pockets empty of cash
the botched memory—
the failure to spell in any language
the chipped tooth just off center
the deformed arthritic fourth finger
on the left hand that won’t clench –
the fear of losing gold
and silver fillings too,
I take them with me
along with the fear of falling –
shovel fresh soil on the lot;
bury the scorn / the unreason
and the idea of dates in time –
shove them well under.
Entomb the vain rational.”
He said all that,
put his feet up on the table
and grinned like a clown.