They scatter the corpses
over private land, handed
over to Science instead of God.
In the throes of departure,
it’s easy to imagine your life
some bigger purpose, your unusable
flesh roasting beneath a steel cage
in the hot Texan sun, an honor
and eager to rot. But tell that to
the man with the shakes,
posing for a picture with the sky
underneath the 405 underpass,
his mouth not quiet lining up
with the flag in his hands, lost
words shoved long ago
into a glove compartment
in his mind, the car left
by the side of the road
on his way out of town.