Work
The old oak retirement home stands still.
Surrounded by all the lost souls of triumph,
Encompassing memories of all kinds.
Someone’s first lover, someone’s first friendship.
Former mother, father, sister, brother,
Gardeners with tulips in the front yard,
Greenness of all kinds, herbs, flora, fauna,
Artists with finished and unfinished crafts
The ideas that are sprawled all about
The sun sets through the haunted stained windows
Feeling ecclesiastic down below
Livelihood of family members shuffle
They shuffle all about, and all around.
Paper people that feel like they may blow,
Blow away, with an ever-daunting trace.
In and out of the room, many feet move.
“Being brave lets no one off the grave.”
Something to hold and be horrified of
All goes on as usual through the halls,
Work to be done, countless people to clean.
Shelves to be stocked, linens to be folded.
Away we wisk our bodies to and fro
Dismembering all the empty rooms of,
All the past souls who once slept in this space.
Rattle of the dark sky with the moon sound.
A whisper so soft, easily covered:
“The other side is where I wanna be.”
Whisking away the body of fifteen.
The world stops, it stops for a whole minute.
The minute: lament, think, continue on.
Gently placing the things that made them them,
Into boxes soon to be forgotten.
Remembering it’s not our job to cry.
Remembering it’s just one of many.
Remembering it’s my time to move on.
The next room: “Hi Ms. Doe, how can I help?”
The old oak retirement home stands here.
Nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
The pretentious picket fence stands in front.
With the tasteless design of the building.
This building marks the end of a cycle.
“The good not done, and the love not given.”
This is the death package of resistance.
“Weeping and gnashing of teeth” but ya know,
Just celebrate the arrival of dawn!