Today's poem is by Rustin Larson

Pavement 5

The pallbearer
                        has a rat's tongue,
                                                but a suit crisp
as a new 50 dollar bill.
                      To tell you the truth,
                                                the coffin is way too
heavy for a weakling
                        like me, but I carry
                                                anyway, knowing
the ride for this corpse
                        is going to throw
                                                my back out something major.
But it's a trip to The Stone
                        tonight for a six
                                                of stout and I'll leave
the cigarettes alone—
                        maybe a bag of beef
                                                jerky for the pug.
She made a special
                        request anyway.
                                                The western light hits
the trees and I think
                        of you, probably dinner-
                                                time in Garlic-
ville, some roasted
                        salmon and a plate
                                                of sliced tomatoes. No
big deal to have you
                        inside me all the time
                                                sitting on the sofa (
my pancreas) with your arm
                        around my conscience.
                                                I get along pretty well
with the trees.
                        The sun makes them look
                                                so clean and cheerful.
-I'll probably stay right here
                        until midnight and
                                                watch their slow,
mysterious disappearance.
                        You know, I could
                                                call you, but I like
the dialogue of silence.
                        It's like most me
                                                in the mirror
                                                                  of myself,

and I'll notice nothing
except eventually
                        in the blackness there'll be
                                                the cricket crawling carefully
and closely up my leg
                        to stay warm.

Copyright © 2017 Rustin Larson All rights reserved
from Pavement
Blue Light Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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