ever more rarely now
you join me in the tomb that I guard
to shed a tear with me
for old times' sake,
oh my roadside companion family
of all these years through
which we were there for each other.

but at the end of the day
you always return
to the homes that you still have
of unsevered lives
where every hour and every day
have not been amputated.

you throw stones at me now,
bible-loads of them,
because I will no longer guard this tomb
for all the pay I get is the deadly silence
after the daytime crowd is gone,
and I soak your popcorn in my tears.

we were eight at first, then briefly seven.
count me out as well now, for this
boat, this house, this no-more tomb,
has risen anchors.

the doors are open, the river is wide


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