The Procession

a poem about the death of my cousin

Cars move in procession,
they stay in a line.
To a destination they don't wish to find.
Faces in windows
solemn with dread.
All travel humbly,
fearful to where they tread.
A grown man is crying, three cars deep.
A woman and her family also weep.
The children see the look in their parent's eyes
for all, these are trying times.
A mother and a father,
near the front of the line,
cannot stop the tears from welling up in their eyes.
Cars move in procession,
they stay in a line.
Dirt is kicked up by tires,
the dust obscures the lines.
To the right birds and trees, to the left city streets.
Cousins and nephews,
stares locked on their knees.
Behind the long black car
all cars move in procession,
they stay in a line.
It is hard to see far in front
as it is also hard to see far behind.
Men and women, in thought, recall what they've lost.
As the cars continue to start and the cars continue to stop,
traveling to the place where all things rot.
All cars move in procession,
they stay in a line, all behind the casket of a 13 year old
which acts as a guide.