THE ABSURDITY OF LIFE, DEATH AND MISS DUFF'S FUNERAL PROCESSION

Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada

(Ernest Hemingway)

 

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In the silence two dozen pairs of eyes dressed in red gloss

on the sidewalk are talking to each other

without their owners understanding a thing.

 

The ringmaster of the Circus of Hades

is leading three black beasts

tamed and trained to walk the tightrope

cleared of traffic, one wheel in front of the other,

the hearse with a final draft in its belly

signed off with an unsuspecting wreath.

 

Two dozen pairs of eyes watch the tightroad stretch

its neck to delay the black tide full of nothing, nothing

from reaching the gasping plot beyond the chin.

 

The ringmaster in a black top hat and black tailcoat

and nightful boots - the sun wedged in the groove

of one sole – every slowmotioned sisyphusian step

a reenactment of day. Rising

from the asphalt sea, lingering – reenactment

of life. Bootheel setting with a knell.

 

In the silence two dozen pairs of eyes follow one

silent pair in a casket without understanding a thing.