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A decommissioned body
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is enclosed
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in glass.
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Friends examine
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how close the resemblance
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of was to is,
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comparing notes,
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and pointing fingers
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to petty discrepancies,
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as if it were
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a document examined
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for fidelity.
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Visitors
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queue up to see
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the glass enclosure,
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to check how worn out the life
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displayed. Perhaps the signs
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will be self-explanatory.
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Around it,
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dissonant voices
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mingle with the yellow light
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cast on its surface,
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where both noise and silence
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kiss.
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The layers of wisdom-
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the thin white hair,
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the wrinkles in the forehead,
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the sealed lips-
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are like a sequoia tree
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and its concentric circles
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while it lay fallen, cut in two
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just like him
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unable to sit, nor rise
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until Death gave the coup de grace
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in his sleep.
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The visitors find their way
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along the seats
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before his enclosure-
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relatives up front,
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close friends next,
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then everybody else
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clustering around
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the coffee, juice,
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biscuits, bread, and nuts-
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good reasons to shut up
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until it's time for one more look
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to say good-bye
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after which things change abruptly
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when loneliness wakes up
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and the dead disappears
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from view
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from their lives
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from what still matters.
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