Which I’ll drink anyway
To dissolve the bad
Aspirin of day
That did nothing for any headache,
Merely scratched at my throat like chalk.
The weather has turned.
Lately the dead spoil
In a van outside the morgue,
Filling the air with rumors
Thick enough the neighbors complain,
While an inmate cuts out holes
For a stranger in an island where no one goes.
We’ll have to devise a new method
Of weighting bodies down with stones
So they can’t return
Asking the same unanswerable
Question of us who failed
Them, yet keep going in this world.