Something inside
has died.
There is a little funeral.

Something on an antique catafalque,
like we had for my father's funeral,
drawn by tiny horses.

I miss him.

The sun shines
like a little gold dime.
All that remains is time.

Nobody is there.
Something has died,
wearied by loss, deprivation

and omens of more.
The little sun will melt
into the shimmering shore,

no one going home,
no one shaking hands,
no one weeping.

Too weary.

I wish it wasn't so,
but it is so.
I remain alive

but something inside
has died. Gone for good.
It makes a heavy mood.

I'm gonna carry this weight
a long time, no catafalque,
dragging a tomb

through the remainder
of time. What if I mind?
I wouldn't matter.

Here is a heart of wood:
brittle, slivered, pocked,
the color of ash.

The lights will stay on,
the rent will come due,
the sky will stay blue.

A catafalque decays
on the minute shore.
Nothing more.

More nothing.


_ J.J. Tindall