He
died but he really didn’t die,
He
was buried alive, barely alive, yes
But
alive! And his putrid flesh,
Blunted
big bones, raised to the
Surface,
in which they resembled
The
drowned…
The
end of life always more intense,
Striking,
if not vivifying; but this all
Took
place while the grave diggers
Leaned
panting on a spade, and smiling
With
great gaps in their front teeth:
Smoking
and drinking,
Watching
the head of the dead slip
Out
of the dirt! Wailing in good spirits!
Thus,
one of the two set down his lamp,
Then
with the heel of his boot
And
with much nervous haste,
—but
so clumsily—
Gave
him a good kick, a lump on the
Dead
man’s head, appeared—said he
To
his young leaf like friend: “A great
Number
of tasks is of this kind.”
And
drank down some more ale
And
wine…
Without
a doubt, the old coot, Empsey
Was
deader than a fried trout!
And
the only way to end this is:
The
Grave Diggers, they drank until
Daybreak,
went on home and
Passed
out!
#3466 (11-16-2016)
End Poem for: “The Protagonist”
