Tuesday, September 27, 2016

THE PROPRIETY OF DEATH

At 102, his death was judged
to be appropriate,
“The end of an era,”
one eulogust opined
and ancient listeners -
white-haired colleagues
albeit somewhat younger -
nodded yes, mmm,
trees bending
in a passing breeze.

His ashes were in a pint-sized casket
on the dais of the Great Hall
under distant gothic light.
Reductio ad absurdum, I thought,
as words lifted to the vault
on currents of warm air.

He’d outlived two wives:
his incapacity from a fall –
although his mind was sharp
and bright as the blade
of a Jerusalem sword –
suggested he should go.
“Time, gentlemen!” the barman said.
He had drunk his fill.

Organ, formality, no poetry,
no religion that winter afternoon.
When the curtain split
unadorned finality like his ashes
in the urn was distributed to us
 in metaphorical unmarked packets –
as appropriate – one for each to carry
as he or she was able.

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