The sun rears her unlikely head
In this late spring,
I walk past rubber black boots decorated
With brightly colored umbrellas
In a useless attempt to block the rain.
Up the subway to 14th street
Around the corner to 12th
I climb to the tenth or the eighth floor
Depending on your bodily condition.
I keep vigil over this resting.
My body is a candle, glowing
Until you make the transition
Back into or out of this life.
This is among the things that could happen.
This is among the things that happened.
For now, you reside in imposed silence.
Dying is just another commodity and
The soul wants routine.
The soul wants sameness, boredom.
The soul wants letting go.
Over us, the palmed stars.