The rites of passing (a new/old poem)

A new poem I wrote recently, from a cast-off bit I found kicking around. Funny how something from several years ago can be recycled.

* * *

The rites of passing

 He was a textbook rummy:  like an old newspaper,

something blown into a doorway.  His skin and clothes desiccated,

battered to the same hue of dust.  Among the office tower legions, he was a

tumbleweed scouring the terrace.  The sound of grasshoppers or cicadas

in faraway trees.

The day exhaled hot breath against

your cheek and the wind came up full of sunshine and grit. No one took notice

of death in a corner, its subtlety

adrift on the day’s undercurrent.

For an instant, all was still.  A handful of coins lay at the feet of the congregated

pigeons.  Priestly crow conducted a silent mass, head cocked.

Looking to the parishioners, catching the eye of anyone

willing to observe passage and make an offering.  A gust riffled his

cloak, and he was off.

Taking the moment with him.  A single black feather

marking the occasion.