Do the dead think of us
as much as we think of them
do they picture us with their first
cup of coffee, their last cup of tea
have they taped our photos
to their mirrors and fridges
do they have tender memories
of our times together
baking brownies, licking spoons
the smell of burnt chocolate
blinking lights and gobs of tinsel
grinning at our gaudy creation
maybe shedding a tear or two
wiping their eyes with fading leaves
or a handful of mildewed roots
do they dip in the river Lethe
where memories are wiped clean
ready to be reincarnated as a snail
or an eagle or a god
but maybe they are snoring lightly
in dreamless sleep
not at all bothered by rodents
and carnivorous worms
nibbling their naked toes
and maybe the real work of the dead
is to simply and finally rest
and not think of us at all
