to those who die is:
pack a fucking lunch.
And I think this next
might be important:
don’t be expecting nothing.
No double downs no call,
I know, for naught, nor for
not foregoing that last;
but, one might think,
likely, there’ll be in store,
not neither no kind of fast,
but rather, some sure but
slow sort of reckoning,
some dealing out of
just what’s fair, what’s earned;
what’s not, left in the ground.
Or, scattered, as some do
to sea; not me, though
leaving any body’s just
a call to lunch for some,
I reckon.
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