Good Mourning

Good Mourning



Birds cry to a blazing, misunderstood sun.
In the background a man pushes a wheelbarrow
over dry, cracked earth and perhaps even the occasional bone.

Blinds pull back from a single, dirty kitchen window
and she looks out briefly through a torn screen.
A view not uncommon to that of the household fly.

Where once a kitchen faucet gave cool, clear water
now its only gift is that of mud, muck and tears
and so she cries as does he though not together.

The bedroom is empty.
One who went away.
Had to go away.
She goes in to make a bed that is never slept in anymore
which of course never needs making at all.
She pulls the sheets tight regardless.
Hospital corners.
A useless, pointless ritual that nonetheless must be done each day.

Outside he goes on pushing the wheelbarrow.
Fill, push, dump....fill, push, dump
as if somehow it is going to make a difference.
Cover the bones.
Cover her bones.

From the window she watches him through fly eyes.
My but he is still a handsome one!
A little gut but that is okay.
He catches her out of the corner of his eye and she turns away.

Just cover the bones.

(Ding!)
The cookies are done.
Every day is cookies.
Every day is the wheelbarrow.
Every day is covering her bones already covered many, many times.

Every day is like clockwork since she has been gone.

The birds watch and cry to a misunderstood sun.

--msl2022