| Poetry |
Three Days
Three days
after you disappeared,
we found your car
abandoned in the state park
a mile from the road,
and the keys were in the ignition,
and your clothes were on the seat,
and your bare footprints led
to the edge of a cliff,
so I said you must have learned
how to fly.
Three days later,
we bore three hundred pounds
of your dead flesh encased
in another hundred pounds of pine,
and we almost dropped you twice,
and your brother said
he wished you had died
of starvation.
And when we buried you
like some surrealist time capsule,
we argued
about where to go for a drink
and who would get your guns,
and your widow
flirted with the undertakers,
and the rented eulogist
kept calling you by the wrong name.
by Matthew Falk
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