The Eulogy

The dead don’t feel cold.
Not like the cold that permeates his feeble flesh, and echoes through his bones:
You are old, you are old, you are old.

Though sometimes, as he mows the grass between the old marble stones,
He swears he can hear them chatter:
What sort of blanket is a soul?

Just a little, not a lot.
Sniffling women and men, black-clad, mourn before a tombstone:
Is it what he thinks they ought?

His heart pounds as he makes his way,
Thinking how nice it is to go back home, though a little whisper knows:
Someday, he’ll have to stay.