It’s not a game.
White coats,
Shoes clicking on
Cold, polished floors.
Your face was dark.
Dark with death.
Yellow with disease.
You did not see us.
You were already gone.
Visitors coming and going.
Your wife’s fits,
And her tears.
Your dog’s howling.
Our country’s tears.
Seven days and eight nights.
Then you were gone. Officially.
On a slab of ice.
Flies buzzing around it.
I could not see it.
Its face was covered.
But I know.
It was not you anymore.
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