is cumbersome and morose, even for someone
who does not know the man who has died.
Slow and steady, like the rain sliding down
the coffin, a white-uniformed Marine holds up
the rosewood box, and sighs, wondering
on whose shoulder he'll rest when his turn comes.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.