One hundred leagues from home, white smoke,
--ancient color of bereavement--
tells the death of some vital part
of my blue chariot’s inner workings.
Charon4 arrives, gray cap and shades,
green tow truck his funeral barge;
black driving gloves and quiet drawl,
relaxed; it’s not his misfortune.
The road to Pluto’s kingdom shines
green and gold in late March sun;
Persephone returned; winter banished,
we drive south across the I-5 bridge, while
whitecaps dance the river.
Not at all the Styx that Homer tells;
perhaps the blind poet saw it wrong.
Death is joy on a day so bright.
May the dark angel come for you
with sunglasses on.
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