Deaths Quota Flying High
The flowers all have scattered,
borrowed feelings shout aloud
Mock funeral of celebration,
grief false beneath their shrouds
The mourning congregation,
to the tavern marched in step
A ruse to the departed,
with each toast his memory wept
His friends then hugged his enemies,
his wife and girlfriend kissed
Through the glass a raven watches,
taking names without a miss
As ‘last call’ is shouted boldly,
and all glasses drained of lies
Two wings beat out a roll call,
—death’s quota flying high
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
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