Pushers

(for my brother)

To those who are left with the most
difficult job:

Scraping the flattened animal off the road,
Deciding where to dispose of its broken parts;

Opening the wardrobe of the newly dead,
Choosing the coffin clothes to take to the morgue;

Returning to the empty house when someone's gone for good,
Removing their trace (once-bitten apple, slippers, comb);

Pulling the curtains aside the morning after,
Willing the sun and the birds back into the sky.

Why it is your lot to take care of this,
I don't know,

But I suspect that for you it isn't really a job,
Or giving those others what they deserve.

What it is, though, is an acknowledgment,
A navigation, an accompaniment,

Of the departing, through the exit door.
A final and eternal push of love.