For The Grave....

three minutes past dying...
the body still warm.
the cat and the dog sit quietly
by the grieving door.
sunlight drives shadows to corners,
as the sound of low voices.
speak up, sister!
he cannot hear!
yet the damp place in the palm,
maybe the hummingbird outside the window.
a truck hurtles down the street,
with frantic need.
dont call the preacher...
call the farmer, the carpenter,
the garbage collector,
the transient bum!
past the point of kindnesses,
shout 'ha! ', pour a drink...
give the thief an incentive,
unlock the door.
send Jesus an email,
pay the past due light bill...
if poverty's flowers be an abomination...
collect thorns and thistle for the grave!
three minutes past death...

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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