Meanwhile people die

Meanwhile people die

They die

And they die

They die waiting

in the queue, 

at the gates of hospital, in the autos, in ambulances, 

On the cart, in the arms. 

Next they are stacked to be cremated 

It is difficult to tell from the smoke through the crematorium chimney 

Where the mother ends and brother begins 

Or whether it is the son or grandmother 

That is the problem with the smoke 

It doesn’t tell 

It keeps its secret 

But sometimes a swirl of breeze 

Conjure a shape 

Wisp a tug

Attempts a final farewell