There is no warning, just soft, folk music
playing, the kind with a man singing
soothing, shapeless words and melodies.
She stands like a vision at the bus stop,
the bus slides by
and when it leaves, she has disappeared
off to haunt the halls of university.
The day after death is calm.
There’s time to drink black coffee
and eat currant cream scone.
There’s time to reevaluate existence
through the front window of a cafe.
The day after death I don’t watch my phone
with the eyes of a wolf.
It’s always easier the day after death.
It’s always the beginning of another phase
of this buddhist hell into which I am dripped
like a wax candle.
