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.