by Michael Brett
The rings and watches from their hands,
And with the self-same Rolex sweep
Their reputations, partners, plans.
You can bow before the dead alone,
And look upset when they're flown home.
On red carpets, behind silk ropes,
Build your name on their pockmarked slopes.
Golden letters, salutes at dawn
And marble angels on cropped lawns,
And bugle calls that thrill the air
Are cheaper far than wheelchairs.
The great thing about the dead
Is they agree with what is said.
Never argue, don't complain
And never seem to die in vain.
If faces from oceans of your sleep emerge
Or their bands are dreams that beat away
Like waves as part of a parting surge
It's not the dead you'll see today.
It's just part of you stirring, as trees in winds,
As people in events. They won't come back.
You can steal from them.
You can steal from them
'For evermore.'
~
Copyright © 2010 - Michael Brett
Published: 6/17/10 · Author's Page · Next Poem