-of the done-for

what life will amount to

lies in the reading of the eulogy.

it can go in many different directions

depending upon who is chosen to read it

and what has been chosen to be read.

the casket may be closed and

the church will be sparsely populated

with family members closing tightly

in the front pew to the right

and a few friends scattered out into

about seven pews moving toward the back,

maybe two or three or as little as one per pew.

a solitary young woman in black

will play a violin standing behind the casket.

she’ll perform a fast song slurring notes slowly,

interpreting “Whole Lotta Shakin’” as if it was drunk.

then, then,.. then I think a child will be yapping

in one the pews toward the back.

its voice is low-keyed but reverberating

in the walled spaciousness of the interior.

the mother is shushing it out of respect.

it’s warm. I believe it’s summertime, and

the doors are open.

traffic can be heard on the streets outside

and an occasional horn is honking for somebody

to come down from the third floor
across the street.

I’m looking at the inclusion of myself

in the poems of the dead.

I’ll have a niche between Healy
and Bedford;

between the Granite Quarry

and the Waterworks of the Narrows,
the great fesh-water Watuppa Ponds
of the ranging Reservation

and the active Housing Projects at the banks

of the river where at twilight, the Sun set.