Define me, archaeologist, when
Someday you unearth my body here,
As “homo sedens,” sitting man,
Attached by arms in rigor locked
To rusted steering wheel.
I suspect you’ll find me here
In driver’s seat, with dusted eyes,
A bored expression frozen on
My desiccated face.
I’m dying in a traffic jam, with
Butts to headlights all the way
From Allentown to Fife.
I’m driving my eventual
Sarcophagus, far fancier than Tut’s.
For cerements I'll have the weight of
Cares, embalming me within
The bitter heat of nature’s purest
Nitre.
I feed my boredom with the bread
Of sighs, and wonder just how long
It takes for you to mummify yourself
By willing, like the ancient monks
Devoted to the Bodhisattva’s way.
My patience seems as if it has no point,
Parked as I am upon a road
That of its nature can’t be called
A “place;”
And here my deepest certainty
Informs me I shall surely end my days.
I’m begging, wrapped like Lazarus, for
That bright, thunderous, holy voice
To call me out,
And roll away the stone.
-
Author:
themerrypapist (
Offline) - Published: February 28th, 2018 02:24
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 36
- User favorite of this poem: Lorna.
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Comments2
Good write, that Holy Voice will call you.
Oh my goodness Merry - your command of your writing and the sense of humor in this one is fantastic. I've always had a horror of digging up bodies and this started out so seriously and then took me by surprise! What a laugh but so well done! I'll never sit in a traffic jam again without thinking of this one......so clever.....
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