A bowie knife in its sheath
A Cattan & Son mechanic's cap
A pair of haggard miner boots
People say sorry and
"My condolences,"
I sputter platitudes
Easy to say
Open your lips and don't think.
Grief is the common language no one understands.
They might be sorry.
And this bowie knife
might have mystical powers
of preservation;
that the hat will keep his smell
on earth a while longer.
And while I handle the details
think of epitaphs
greet old relatives in
dusty, biblical homes:
the real thing goes
missing