Outlived by Time

The empty hearse skimmed away
like a dead leaf chased by the wind,
pallbearers slipped off to their offices,
the church basement breathed
fresh coffee and stale odors,
he overlooked the grief masks of the
inheritors while he shook their hands.
He felt no worm of mortality webbing
his eighty-five-year-old face, only pain
from this latest wound.
His cane like a scythe whacked off
dandelion heads as he walked home,
the rewards of a walk home, home, home,
a shell to keep out strangers and the rain.
Pools of eyes under white-haired cliffs
reflected the shadows he shaped in words,
‘‘Damn,’’ he said softly, ‘‘every time
I see one of my friends, he’s dead.’’