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)