there you on the shelf above the workbench
in a urn given to those survived by you (he did survive you)
and it's true what phil said, in the dust there's chunks of bone
sneaking a gaze in i have a weird temptation to touch you
when i was a little girl at my great grandma's funeral
i wore a fancy black hat with a veil
i asked my mom if i could touch the hand
she said yes but when we got to the coffin, i practically ran
i was scared, but i also wanted to stare
at death
and there you sit on the shelf above the workbench
my awareness of you tugs at the hem of my shirt unceasingly
never legally married makes you mother outlaw
i talk with you more now
and you make more sense somehow
i guess they don't have vodka in the afterlife
and there you sit on the shelf above the workbench
i suppose a day will come when he'll set you free
in the meantime, i can live with you
while you collect dust upon your dust
i will hear you
i'll hear your smoker's laugh
and your language crass
i'll hear you yell at the dogs
i'll hear you cry when your son leaves
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