Crematorium
As a word it tastes good on the tongue
Buttery, yet not fattening
all irony, Greek or Latin
Now ashes, as a word, tastes like ashes
Fat salary
That's how this finality translates to me
It gives my kids laughing fits
ungrateful little shits
Their worlds of make-believe bought by the bereaved

Screws and pins and bolts
never go up in smoke
It's like the last line of a joke
and I get it

My wife can't understand
why I'm calm, contented, and I am
She thinks life is hell
exactly why I feel compelled
to owe my clientele at least one happy life

From dust we come, to dust we go
in between we drift beneath some doors
There's joy to crush your bones
tears to wash rounded stones
but not enough washing of the feet of whores

You are all equal in my eyes
just different in size
Brief butterflies