Conciliatory

The dead don’t deserve our respect.
Shortly before the earth begins
Healing around them,

They stop returning our calls.
They won’t climb out of bed
To help move an armoire,

Gauge a sauce’s spice,
Hear us through our pain
Until morning.

They’re like bad parents, and we’re so forgiving.
What reason do we give them to change?
We raise buildings, dedicate books,

Quote advice that doesn’t apply,
And for what?  To put their names in the air
Like the scent of lemon after dusting. 

originally published in BorderSenses