HIS GREAT DAY
Turns out I was the great man after all.
Otherwise, why the suits.
Why the priest taking time out of his busy day
to eulogize me.
And look at those tears.
To think I lived all of these unwept years
figuring maybe some people
were born without ducts.
And they’re hugging each other.
For me, the warring sides of the family
come together.
I was gone a month once
and no one missed me.
And now, they do nothing else but.
Nobody laughs.
The small talk is muted.
Everyone’s finding more and more ways
for knowing I’m not here.
How great am 1?
Not only do they risk
an hour in church for me,
they even sing the hymns.
Horrible voices sure
but what do I care.
I can’t hear them.
And they’re following my old body
down to the hole
some guys obligingly dug.
My first procession.
What they must think of me.
I’ll be six feet under
but. worms or no worms,
I get my own stone.
And I’ll be buried alongside
all the other great men.
I’m just sorry
they didn’t bury me sooner.
Author Bio:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.