Deaths Quota Poem by Kurt Philip Behm

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)