Rigor Mortis

[rowens]

Its not sunset 
   or the last leaves of autumn 
      or gentle into that good night no 
 no metaphor, not yet.

  Its high-noon, loud, summer, 
         quick, and car exhaust.
      Just a glance–downtown, 
  asphalt, opposite McDonalds, in the divider.


It might be the second stanza that doesn't work. 




Its not sleep. Even from my distance 
I see its not sleep. Too stiff,
too much like driftwood, sun dried, petrified.
      Too much like wood 
         on its way to stone, too quick. 

       And there's the women 
     back broke on grief 
   washing over his husk
crashed over and foaming 
nearly as loud 
as traffic.