Osborn5

G l e n n  O s b o r n  

    the poem (untitled)

He lived long enough to be 

the patriarch he didn't want to be 

and when he died, smelling of 

whiskey and sushi and blues 

we wrapped him in silk and 

stuck flowers in his mouth. 

Here he lies with the breath 

of cala; touch his body with 

your soft hand and feel the 

smooth sheen of his shroud.

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