Such a Day Is This
Scott Whitaker

Such a day is this, the railing sun
above the funeral parlor windows,
the evil call of mallards
on the pond beyond the parking lot.
Such a day to be buried in the swollen earth.
Its tongue fat and lulled by so much rain.
Such a day for the last marriage.
Even now the fine cloth
and dandy skin are breaking down.
The mourners have not yet finished their crying.
What would they say if they knew
there was nothing past the pulp of hymns,
nothing more than a collection of cells
in a box. What would they say then?
Even if the great hall lies beyond, what of it?
What about the sun life? The life of rain
and trees? Such a day to romp like mad bees
in the pollen dusted grass. We should have more
of sun, and ducks, and little blue flowers.
We are lost without them.

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