Funerals for February

Images flashed of those who had died 

And their voices became louder. 

I had found their obituaries as presents. 

Their untold gifts whispered to ear, 

For the dead had finally caught on. 

Twelve would not stop sharing their stories, 

And two kept standing in the room 

Lurking behind an old TV: peeking. 

Upside down, they skipped, 

Playing games of hopscotch on ceiling 

Snickering with frantic wails, tugging at collar, 

Pulling throat by jump rope to play...

Through the maddening sounds of marbles 

And blasted whiz-bangers banging, 

Knucklebones smashed with horrific laughter 

As teeth rolled in as dice. 

I shunned the notion toward our casket nation 

On gambling with the ghosts of thought. 

The lights had flickered, thus all went out 

In denying the voice of Yesterday's Child. 

But the many tales I have heard as years passed by, 

I grew weary of speaking within the walls of this old dead house.