Endless Wake

Death was not unexpected,
and after years of lingering,
no one took notice of the passing.

The funeral procession,
plain and simple,
a red wheelbarrow
instead of a hearse,
mourners let out a howl
and said Kaddish
at the unmarked grave,
behind the decaying
stone wall in the wasteland.

A memorial is held
inside the Emperor’s
Ice Cream parlor and café.
Street corner gurus
and kitschy schooled
coffee house bards,
spout and spew words
filled with cramp antonyms
and laced with adjectives,
a grumpy con,
a gospel of prose,
a song of praise sung
with allegro hoopla.

Poetry is dead!
Long live poetry!