Today's poem is by Sue Owen
Even the Dead Do It
Feel regret about the one
event that led them there,
the cough that cracked the rib,
the ladder rung that broke
the neck, or the knife that
plunged too deep into the heart.
It's all a matter of perspective,
the dead think, as they lie
in that underground darkness.
It's all a matter of the silence
of eternity, as no breath
ever comes back for a short
visit, even for old time's sake.
And since the dead can't talk,
what else is there to do
but to think hard about the pain
and brevity of their lives,
the lost chances and wrong turns?
But even that could lead
to many headaches and the old
insomnia, when death was
billed as peaceful, even serene.
So why trouble with the thinking,
after all, the dead think?
All that is required of us in
this cemetery is what our bones
politely arranged, what the
prayer meant as the coffin shut.
Copyright © 2007 Sue Owen All rights reserved
from Southwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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