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funeral

The pauper is dead.
The pauper is dead and we have all been too blind to see it.
We’d propped up his corpse and set it in a chair
And fed him meals of bread and cake
We took the body on drives and through the city
We delivered him to school and talked to him about careers
Despite the fact that the only sound he made
Was that of the flies buzzing
But we finally set him in the ground.
Buried him beneath the dirt
Bare and empty
But sometimes
We can still feel him
Breathing
Reaching
And sometimes

We reach back.

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