Daily missive breaks into the weekend for Saturday the 29th of March.

“There is nothing

You can say

That will hurt anymore

Than it already does.”

So many say those words

Hoping they are true.

The fresh-cut flower

Lies in her hand

The flies buzz

As flies do

The bee goes about his business

The bee was asleep in the flower

The fly has other priorities

Nothing lives forever

The shadow at the end of the bed

Is me

Looking for an exit.

It is always coldest

Just before the dawn

When so many of us

Subsume.

The hands on the face

Of the grandfather clock

Shiver with anticipation

The hall is a Cathedral

Of silent breathing.

Coughs and tics

The brims of hats felt,

The creases in crinoline

Smoothed,

Nothing so much as moves.

The air is stationary

Birds have flown

Their absence is temporary

The crows will be back

They have an audience

Before the pope

Where they will recite

Word for word

The last rights, in ragtime.

Charlie Parker will play

The blues

And all the birds

Will sing yakety-yak

Don’t come back.

I won’t.

The flowers are dead

And so is she.