Attendance

         I.

We stood in circles
round grandfather tree,
old and withered
gnarled round eyes
which searched
the ground for faces
he could still call names.
But how the names they raced,
running round the place
like children at restaurants,
scraps of dirty memory
cluttered round the floor
for some poor sop
with a grandson's name
to sweep into another room.

                II.           


Death is a secret
the dead keep,
huddled hordes
lining the eaves
all in black
talking of things,
things unknown,
things unseen,
things unheard,
movie-goers
trying to make mystic
when called
to the occasion.
And the rain
tries to touch them,
leaping from puddles
just to lick them,
tugging at their heels
just so that they
might be noticed.
And the air fills
with the hum
of voices
across the street,
amongst other eaves
and other dimfull
visions of things
projected, perhaps,
between the theaters.
And the drum
of choices,
the splatter
of tires throwing
devil-may-care
indifferences
that lead you
to seek such
minimal shelter.

            III.

At my grandfather's viewing
I thought I saw his chest move
up and down, up and down,
thought I saw a lip curl
round the inside of a joke,
thought that in a moment
he would rise and laugh
the deathness from his clothes,
stretch and ask for attendance.