A Poem from the Archives:
Vol. 13, No. 52, Page 216 (January–June 1971)
A wreath of mourners ring
the grave. It gapes.
The people sing.
The service isn't meaning anything.
His secretary's legs look sleek in black.
The widow's looking farther back.
Across the gap, now flower-choked,
her swollen eyes have stumbled on
another man she lost; who poked
the fire, and when it stirred was gone.
That was another death.