Death surrounds us with blatant arms.
A sanitation worker dies and no one
cares, but banshee phones striking at midnight,
summoning the equally unknown people
to altars of rancor and resignation.
What do they do but recognize a human
in the grip of edgy, illegible lives,
the ritualistic mouthing of platitudes,
cold and incurable as dry, winter snow?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011