I grieve for the losses yet to come,
The coroner carving in blunt white bone
The names of the dead like a permanent plaque;
This man is my friend, dressed in fresh-pressed black.
He sits at the table with the rest of us.
“Pass the salt” – or is that dust?
Folding paper napkins into cheap grotesques,
An everyday hero’s quaint bequest.
And shooting the breeze like a friendly chum:
One day their hour (and yours) will come.
Inspired by thoughts on death at KGB Bar.