The dead do
what they want
which is nothing—
sit there, mantled,
or made real
by photographs
in silver frames,
or less real
by our many ministrations.
Dusting. Bleach. The world
swept, ordered,
seemingly unending.
The dead, listless,
lazy, grow tired
& turn off the TV—
or like a father passed
out in an easy chair
during the evening news
what’s watched now
does the watching.
Copyright © 2025 by Kevin Young. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 20, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
