turkeys dance in, then out of, winterberry
bushes, open beaks upturned,
and wild geese point across the sky.
The old man loved the garden, though
he didn’t get it.
"Why," he said (his
questions always invitations to agree),
"Why not closer? Why don't you move closer to the road?"
Then he was dead, a wax statue heaved
from bed into
a plastic bag. He wore his sneakers and the blue diaper nurses
use
when they take over peeing and the
poop. Attendants zipped him in,
zip, zip, no misunderstandings there. Zip, zip, into the oven with you, Sir,
and we wish you a pleasant hereafter,
in flameless heat that costs a thousand dollars
and wrings out every changeable thing,
leaving only tiny flakes
and hunks of bone. The dried-up goo
of melted shoes, sifted.
What's left?
We scratch the gardens
over, moving on.