The Coma
The box, a squacking crow,
mimmicks the stanzas of organ music
pumping the anthem in mechanized time
Maidens try to pray the
lifeless form, whose innards sing the muse
for the box,out of purgatory.
Cold coffee is the communion
as the surgeons conspire.
No sage to thwart demons,cigarette funeral
pyres.
Priests pass the Soma, numbing the guests.
The tailors hands roam the wife
measuring for her mourning dress.
Doctors decide when the spirit departs
They hear only debts, not sounds from the box
The box is a ripple but the water is calm.
It mocks the heart, how’s the soul gone?
The mother curses God, for her son she yearns
Silence the box The mortician needs a turn