Standing in this misting rain, I hear you
speak of Inherkhau, who awaited Osiris
in a pleated gown. Warm figs and peaches
twining in his tomb, organs sealed in terracotta,
save the heart which waits stalled in the breast.
Such pomp compared to yours:
just four plumed horses with Jed and Sam on sax.
Yesterday, the man in charge would not allow
the horses into the cemetery. We carried you
from sidewalk to grave. Me, old Pete and the boys.
Left them to graze on the grass, tugging forsythia
through the wrought iron fence. Saxes mute at the gate.
"No music," he said, so Sam just sang goodbye.
Today, I bring you gifts: a magical cat
to catch the snake of Chaos, bright coins
to light your way, a bottle of beer and seed
for your Ba. Would that I could give you my arm,
but I leave my glove to hold your hand, lead you
safely home in this last solo stumble into shadow.