Ode to the Dead: Madison St. in Ann Arbor

i saw the other side—the walking dead
lingering in Suburbia:

fresh-cut grass is the smell of embalming fluid
that dampens the concrete trails to the grave;
the odor overtakes my nostrils
and keeps my feet moving away from
ghostly faces. strollers are coffins
where the dead dreams of lovers lie:
a plastic rattle is more chilling
than the shaking of bare bones
and the chattering of timid teeth—
the mouths that cry for walked dogs,
the beat-beat-beat of pick-up hoops in the driveway
when sweat pants are the suit in which
you will be buried. take this minivan
(a Hearst) to greet your final maker—wearing an apron
or khakis while thinking of ways
to make room in your ranch-style burial plot.

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