The Dead

The Dead I sometimes think that if the dead came back, They'd form a separate caste, wear somber fashion, Take trips to buried cities in Iraq And argue the decaying of the atoms.

I sometimes think they'd fashion new museums, Containing species long ago extinct, Of Kiwi nests and Dodo eggs obscene Of things that hunted, killed, but did not think.

They'd huddle in their segregated clubs And softly whisper, shadowed by their shades, Their ancient discourse dead, while lights above Are dimmed to darkness in their sad cafes.

The living, when they passed them in the street Would pause and drop their bags, their fear complete.

Carl Estrin