And Luckier

The dead could
care less about you or me.
They do not populate our dreams
like we may think:
I am thinking of one episode
where my mother, a shade,
lays down on her side of the bed,
crying silently in her room,
with her flowered night shirt on.
while I a child, calls, "I love you"
to the darken face
that rises like she used to do.
With the same weight I remember.
Why would anyone do that?
My mother wouldn't.

And as some may watch,
the magnificent boob tube of oblivion
life becomes more and more
like afternoon T.V.
that one keeps on
in the background during lunch

Soon it becomes clear
And other ideas, far more greater than
we could think of down here on earth
help to turn the attention elsewhere.
Away from us.

I would not think about you or me if I was dead.

And while we are worried about oblivion
the frozen moment of lengthy eternity
they turn away smirking
at our utter simplicity

that we think of them as watching T.V.
in a pool hall, rowing a boat
or fishing by a beautiful stream.
Or that are standing behind us
in the same room
or hovering over us
giving us subtle hints as
to the way we should lead our lives
like a good loved one should.