Guns firing, he vacillates, turns halfway
around, falls
down towards the back, and lies
on the ground facing the sun.
Silence.
Then, say, you, orderlies, had felt
his cold stiff,
raised it, full
as pillar, onto the gurney,
tried to close
the mouth, closed the eyes, drew
the arms to the sides
as if it was he,
would you be as before?
Would your lives take
a turn, for the better,
for the worse? Wouldn’t you
have phantasms,
outlandish
cares, feebleness, despair?
Would you like
your living? Would
your friends look
not the same, your family?
Even passing,
wouldn’t it seem different to you –
a home, a sod, where he
had been ahead of you or
slept beneath
a hundred
and fifteen years ago,
and you would catch
yourselves
standing, in the small hours,
in the front door
to a room,
eavesdropping on a man panting,
just a usual man panting.
Perhaps, if you’d buried yourselves in him.
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