Dead Man’s Hand Poem by Uriah Hamilton

In the dark corner of the room,
information was received
that her husband had expired
and was worthy of the grave
as the party began to fizzle out
like the last mist of a summer shower.

Sometimes death is met with depression,
sometimes with revelation and confession,
at times, merely with regret or fascination,
but God have mercy when it is met
with relief or jubilation.

She was silent and far from crying,
I hated to shake a dead man’s hand
in gratitude for dying,
but opportunity is ever present
in the lonely pursuit of love.