I am strolling through a cemetery,
you may wonder at that, but,
here is an abundance of friends and family.
The stone marked place of resting souls,
their’s is the period at the end of life,
yours,
mine,
his,
hers,
they,
them.
The composite does not matter,
it is finis,
disambiguation.
You may believe there is a return,
but there is not.
It does not matter if you are fried,
or, have your fluids replaced,
it is all the same.
You are the past,
gone,
soon forgotten,
planted,
fodder for worms,
a printed obituary,
person non-grata.
It does not matter
to which god you pray,
you are dead, and
that its why cemeteries are exquisite.
That is why there is peace,
calm,
quietude,
no political compromise,
no blind eye discrimination,
no right,
no left,
no war,
not gay,
not straight,
not polygamous,
not monogamous,
only a dessicated,
rotted corpse,
decomposing,
in an over priced coffin,
that no one can appreciate,
including the corpse,
though I do love the plastic flowers,
and, the riding mower treads
that play tic-tat-toe
across the grassy green
of each slightly mounded grave.
I know who is there, and
I am not, yet.
There is solace in that, and
knowing they are there and I am here,
I find I am comforted in their company.

2013, Donald Harbour