Father, great aunt, uncle,
have all gone beyond;
whether it is great
only they know.
Why do we labor so,
to keep them alive?
Sweating in the sun,
we plant perennials
on pauper’s plots,
brush dirt from flat slabs
that tilt and sink with the years
receiving plastic flowers, small flags and tears:
for all we know,
they are dying for us to leave.
Soon a mass will be said for them.
There will be prayers and singing,
and after, we will eat food because we can.
The relationship, you see, is a bit one-sided.
For they are gone,
and would dearly appreciate it if we would
get a life.