Temporarily Dead
One Sunday after church:
Where’s Uncle Martin?
I asked a fire escape out a window.
On high, with God, happier there.
But to get there he had to
not exist for a spell.
The waxen hands
in the casket looked like hands
that knotted the flowered tie he wore Sundays
he sat
legs crossed in an easy chair.
At his side a tall glass of Piels with a head
of foam.
Now,
his joy greater than ours,
he sits at the feet of God.
We will, too
First we’ll have to be good and dead.
First, we’ll have to not be, really not be.
Suggested Reading
-
Featured • Poetry
-
Poetry
-
Poetry