Not soldiers, accident victims,

strangers we cluck our tongues about

and then go back to eating, shopping,

making much of small things; no

now it's a parade of people we know;

young, old, our age – the nerve -

old friends, old loves, the man who did

our hair, a new acquaintance full of promise,

a colleague, and a cousin's husband -

waving flags of their uniqueness in our faces,

leaving images of themselves - kirlian photographs

implanted on our eyelids, their voices

engraved inside our ears.  This year,

we're surprised by too many ghosts,

they deliver packages tumbled

with ribbons of memories; confettied

with regrets.  We're not ready for this. 

There is unfinished business; forgiveness

we had yet to find, get well cards

we never got around to sending, soup

we never brought, words we thought

we still had time to say, caresses, hugs,

some needed thank yous.  The dead

celebrate their endings despite us.

The band is playing just for them.

They turn the corner without us.

They are at peace.  They leave