A dead poet writing about a dead love
reminds me of roses on a casket
as a minster plants prayers in the rain,
only for whispers to sprout in minds
sad at death, but also glad it isn’t them
or their spouse who still denies they snore
every night ten years later,
so they’ll call it luck
instead of life, until enough time passes
and yellowed “Collected Poems of…”remain
placed on the wrong library shelf,
while the house that was paid off
in less than twenty years
is sold to a new couple,
who don’t own a single book,
but keep telling themselves
they’ll take up gardening one day.