THE PROCESSION
Battle scarred and tested… Worn
Down and bested… By all of the
Little things in life… And some
Things are lost at painful cost…
And some things are merely
Misplaced… And it’s a fact of life
That if something can be stolen
It will be…
It’s Sunday afternoon and soon
The weekend will be over… Monday
Prepares for its assault… As perfect
Families gather around dining room
Tables… Each while dreading the
Drudgery that awaits them when
The alarm clock shatters a good
Night’s sleep at the first crack of
Dawn… As the first shard of sunlight
Spreads false hope over monotony
Pre-ordained…
Monday arrives…
But ambition prevails with the help
Of caffeine and desperation… And
Soon you work your way into a rhythm…
Trying hard to coax an ounce of true
Meaning out of just another day…
Walking on egg shells while hiding
From the mortician’s ever watchful
Eye… Trying hard to survive…
The hereafter can wait, thank you very
Much… You dig in your heels… Not so
Fast… There’s no rush to reap this year’s
Crop… It’s not yet time for the harvest…
And we know that the worse sound in
All of nature is the tick, tick, ticking of
The grandfather clock in the hallway…
Where the passage of time can be
Audibly heard… Erasing away the
Hours you may stay… To play for pay…
On this desolate island of limited time…
It’s a long drive to work… A funeral
Procession has traffic backed up for
Blocks… A flower car trails a limo
From which a grieving widow can be
Seen in the back… Red, yellow, and
White carnations leach color… Roses
And lilies too… The somber travesty…
The bizarre pageantry… In concealment
Of the one inescapable and universal
Truth…
Learn your lesson well… Make no
Mistake about it… Very important
People become unimportant corpses
When all is said and done… And so a
Widow weeps… And a titan of industry
Meets his demise… So what… There’s
So much more of value to play for while
There’s still time left on the clock…
Some jerk in a Jaguar runs a red light
To avoid the procession… While barely
Missing a middle-aged woman pushing
A cart full of groceries across the street…
He leans on the horn as if the woman is
At fault… What’s the rush… To save a
Second or two… He fails to get it… The
Poor dumb bastard… He doesn’t see his
Likely fate… Clueless… An unimportant
Corpse in waiting… What’s the hurry…
A life… An experience… Where common
Things are valued more than time…
Beauty acknowledged… Beauty taken
For granted… Either way it’s there
To be perceived… Wake up… No more
Borrowing against next year’s bounty…
Next year may never come…
The work day is over… Not quite
Dusk… It’s a long drive home as the
Sun deceitfully sets… A wisp of a
Cloud in an otherwise cloudless sky
Drifts overhead with no apparent
Reason for being… Inexplicable…
Lonely… But clouds… Like souls…
Need no explanation… Fathomless…
They just are…
And so it all comes down to this…
Men and women… Whether feral or
Refined… Humping away… Blending
DNA… All to ensure their legacies in a
Last gasp grasp for immortality… But
Hold on a minute…Immortality is now…
It’s what you make of it…
And the procession never ends…
