They are all quiet, as though
it hasn't quite sunk in, yet.
It will, soon.  Or not.
I know those who speak to lovers,
and those who speak to friends, without answer.
Some of them, I think bitterly, are even dead.

That though sits, leaden, in my mind,
which wants to drift, but with such weight,
remains at the task at hand.
They are all quiet, as though
they fear speaking, fear dishonor.
Mostly dishonor, which is why I am here.

I wonder what he looked like, and what
he looks like now.  Do our ties match?
Does his body bake in the sleek casket
like my feet cook in my stylish shoes?
Where is his wife?  Who is his wife?
Where are his daughter, his son?

From rotted, disgusting teeth, an officer's cry
rings out.  Those teeth linger in my eyes, my sight,
as I kiss, and breathe, and sigh.
They are all quiet, as though
I asked them to be, told them to be.
And I close my eye - my eyes - and see brown and rotted teeth.