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Notes on the Hereafter

No matter if birds invented clouds
or vice-versa.
The  sure jolt is that

the unlovely young: daughters-in-law,
road musicians, some

will outlive us. All
our howling
about fair?

Unheard.  Private
Still obscure.  Who cares?

They're here.  We're gone
to some cumulus throne
to survey

how he still pokes
in his nose,
to disdain her

puny red-eye gravy.
At closing time,
we find that

no one's keeping score
of flaws
or our good will,

both weightless then
as feathers
on the Lethe.

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