called a wake, although we slept,
worthless disciples in the garden
of doubt and anguish over the
tumbling foothold of grief,
We smoked cigarettes, switched
to beer to get soberer, shaved
and put on clean clothes, clothes
we’d bury ourselves in,
were we dead ourselves
and not walking in the long shadow
behind the grave.
This is one of three poems I intend to post as the next three entries.