Poem: The Dead

The Dead

The Dead are not here
not reading the new yorker, propped in bed
unshaven uncouth grin when I come knocking

The Dead are not down there with the writhing bodies
the pain, the wolfing down of mashed potatoes
once I clear the drooped face for swallow

Nor are the Dead hiding in the machines, the octopus
rammed down the throat or the collar
of the high vicar like the spine of a book

The books don’t contain The Dead
I’ve looked a dozen times between De Quervain
thyroiditis and deep vein thrombosis

Jokingly, I search for The Dead in the cafeteria
among the saltless foods, the mystery sauce
the misery sauce that makes us do what we do

The Dead aren’t what we do, but haunt us
like phantoms, thunderclouds, armies of widows
who wring their hands and say, what now
and the best answer we have is to follow suit