The dead do not rest,
easy in their beds, with peaceful smiles
or in the comfort of ash.
They will walk up to your barbecue
and sniff,
and grin,
and before you know it
they have eaten the rising scent of burning charcoal,
the fumes of cooking meat.
There is no scent of lavender in their action.
When you are waiting at the bus stop,
the cigarette in your hand sends out tendrils
of a signal.
They will blow smoke rings
while you are still trying to catch a breath.
They will lick at leftovers and
drink the vapors rising from your
gimlet, your sour, your perfect old-fashioned.
The idea of your drink remains, but the fervor is gone.
The dead stick around. They are
not gone from us, not only memory.
And they are restless.
They walk the halls of our heads
at all hours, while we are still waiting
for unproven verdicts to pass down.
