The Funeral

Rotting, cold, covered in cobwebs
He's dead.
No longer will he
eat my Oreos
rub the crumbs in my couch
fart in my bed while I'm trying to sleep
ask why we are having so many
"relationship problems"
wander off while I'm shopping.
He's dead.
Rotting, cold, cobwebby.
I miss him sometimes.
and cry two tears at a time
from both eyes.
My writing is dead.
He ran a writer's block sign.
and was killed by a man
on a tractor.
Now he is dead.
Rotting, cold, cobwebby.
The love of my life is gone.