Death's Quota

The flowers all have scattered,
  borrowed feelings cry out loud

Mock funeral of celebration,
  grief false beneath their shrouds

The mourning congregation,
  to the tavern marched in step

A ruse to the departed,
  with each toast his memory wept

His friends then hugged his enemies,
  his wife and girlfriend kissed

Through the glass a raven watches,
  taking names without a miss

A ‘last call’ shouted boldly,
  and all glasses drained of lies

As two wings beat out a roll call
  —death’s quota flying high

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)