by Lisa Marie Popp

Death, it lies on the air like fame

beneath a moon so bright

it lit up the plastic-covered sofas

inside dusty homes.

The old man no longer breathes

but exhales life with a sigh,

fearing he might die

only not on a night like this!

Death is the rumor they spread

after the bedtime story

a question of travel and change

but the kids are asleep

when Death arrives in soiled clothes.

The old man asked me to take a walk

in the cemetery where pointing at a mark

he said when you die

it’s mostly a question of light

like saying goodbye and waving a hat.

A slice of sight in time

Somewhere the people you knew

wait to welcome you aboard

like clouds moving across the lawn

thinking of playing crochet but never doing so.

The old man holds his hands in the air

an eccentricity so energetic,

wonder if Death is waiting there

among stone and pastoral beauty of grass,

provided you can afford it!

Death becomes a word

like restful

the boundaries of life darken

where we stand with umbrellas,

and there you simply are:

People smile like dust

at the stone that bears a name,

the shape of rain on a gray day

as a shadow takes its flesh 

beyond the place of amazement.