speculatively

The Young Dead Speak Ill of the Old Dead

They complain about the food, lack thereof;
they talk and they talk of the unfairness of afterlife;
how the old dead have their heads in the clouds;
how no one listens anymore, and never did.

The old dead shuffle with their hands
where their pockets used to be, humming
like wind in the pines behind the red barn,
unable to speak since their mouths turned to dust.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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