Dot Goes Home
You're dead, but I can still tie a mouse by its tail to a teacup.
Your daughter says she feels you, she is in ecstasy,
says this in earshot of your proper corpse.
Your stepson, who in the eighties ate his gun
doing fine, one eye in a permanent wink,
no sense of taste, wields his own Tabasco.
His estranged son bears no echo of rage on his face
from finding Daddy that way, tho I hear it was an effort
to get little Bobby to invite big Bobby to his wedding.
All the usual relations and revelations;
“She's going home,” “A Better Place”
Dressed in your Sunday best,
blood swapped with blue juice,
in your daughter's mind you're in a palace,
along with the brass saint
nailed to a wood cross above your box;
who does not look at all well.
Your eldest's a study of implosion;
your grandson looks like he's
running for president.
It is all very pleasant, who am I to call it a myth;
it will be a Better Place than this
stuffy foyer of a renovated home;
motel paintings on the wall,
In your palace of dirt with your husband
and his first wife, a man whose greatest
courtesy to you was to die in his sixties,
giving you a few decades to play bingo,
take a lover, blow the renovation money
on a trip to Atlantic City.
Go home, now, in your airtight box,
mailed to your God like a letter.