Improv “Loss” Corey Marks

We stand, clad in black, except for Uncle Vic
who wears yellow, over the place they tore up Mother
Nature to put the wooden bed for you. Jimmy sobs on my shoulder,
but I stone face the granite boulder with your name, his brother,
this isn’t where the dead go.
It’s not the way- to close up the earth and put a few flowers down,
how do you get out? How does your soul get free?
This isn’t where the dead go.
The dead go bowling with everyone they’ve missed, or sit around catching up
on the years- not left alone in a mahogany box, or scattered along the beach to mix into the ocean breeze or fed to a clown-fish.
This isn’t where the dead go.