I Don’t Go To Funerals by Jill Stockinger
Perhaps the meaning of life
is nonexistent;
perhaps the meaning of life
exists only in the living of it;
how can it exist
after death?
Enough of this hallowing
of the dead.
I’d rather feed the squirrels
or march in protest
of the latest stupidity
or write a poem;
anything but stand around
with a dead body in the room.
Even yours.
Especially yours.