After so many deaths, each
one became less
murderous on his heart
than the last;
the sorrow expressed on the widow’s,
widower’s,
son’s, daughter’s, grandchild’s,
best friend’s face,
and the muted tediousness of
the light struggling in
through the stained glass, bleak and spent
and gray, dusty even,
killed him, no pun intended;
the sidewalk would be empty,
everyone with a heart was sitting
in the chapel
blotting his or her eyes courteously,
shaking their heads, “such a
shame.”
but after countless eulogies, it became
exhausting for him to let the
fragility of human life
break his heart
every time.