Bobby’s Argument Against The End

The head lowers not for prayer
but submission. In the preacher’s throat
a cracked muffler for grief speaks in tone God
at the arc’s tip of a semi circle with the casket
cradled like a period
in the fermata. Otherwise, the day’s surplus
beauty goes unsold and the market’s crashing.
Sun so bright it’s a wonder they’re bowed so
turned to inward out, it could only be
their necks too weak to lift for so much beauty.
As though they’d stay there after the motorcade
departed, their bodies stalked and chasing with
quick grown roots to meet the lowered body.
No one thought him a farmer though he was.
Former Husband. Father of two. Formerly three.
A thousand stalks before his house
unaccounted for survivors. Grow six
feet to go un-harvested. Heavy headed.
Would shrug their shoulders had they had ‘em.