At the Front

At the front, he’s at the finish.

 

Warily we shuffle into church,

to pay sedated tributes,

to the dead man in the box,

who was alive just two weeks prior.

 

Gathered in new hats and suits,

to witness hand picked words,

conjured by the tonguely ones,

to wrap black holes,

in bright red paper,

sutured on with satin ribbons.

 

Flying blind,

bereft of rightful responses,

refusing to go maskless,

to expose our naked undersides,

in such a high stakes play,

we sell out and settle for lousy imitations,

of those we saw pretending yesterday.

 

At the front, he’s at the finish.

Over here, we’re in the middle.

 

Younger heads turn in disgust,

towards a baby wailing at the back,

quite immune to his mother’s desperate placations.

They disapprove of his discordant protests,

which grate against the preacher’s prayers.

 

But older ears know that all is as it ought to be,

that it would be lesser for the lack,

that it’s right to have a baby at the back,

in outspoken naked protest,

to force the juxtaposition,

of the three seasons,

which quietly bleed into one another,

with an invisible hand-off.

 

At the front, he’s at the finish.

Over here, we’re in the middle.

At the back, he’s just beginning.

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