What Skeletons Think
Who knows what skeletons think
when disburdened of the dull meat
we pack on them all our lives?
The painted Halloween figure
we’ve hung on a tree to honor
the pagan point of view says
nothing of the real thing clacking
and clattering in our cruelest dreams.
I often feel my bones suffer
the bulk that strains the ligaments
that knit the construction together.
The bones themselves remain aloof
from the usual daily sufferings.
Although they’re not immortal
they must know that they’ll linger
well after the beef and fat decay.
They‘ll weather like pure ivory,
attaining a dainty shade of gray
that illuminates the darkest nights
for those who know how to look.
When I learn what they think I’ll sigh
with self-recognition based
in the most primal of matter,
all spiritual rumors effaced.
