After the Funeral

True, we’re all growing up
to death. Maturity is then
that final sleep. After a hard
day’s work we can lay down
somewhere and let it go.
When the final payment is made
and recycling begins it’s good
to know you got your fill
of it.
When my friend died
he simply looked
astonished and we
threw dirt down into
that astonishment.
What did he see that we
can’t? A raven with
a wicked eye flicks
a glance at me today
as if he knows but
won’t tell.
Through a mud spattered window
sun falls on a dusty hymnal.
Someone smacks its surface
his certainty gone
in a puff of dust
and the fading notes
of the last song
he’ll ever hope to sing.
You can’t sing
with a mouthful of dirt.
Somebody ought to
shoot out the sun.