the roads are flooded
across the city
as the cold rains fall

he is headed
to the cemetery

there are
a million other places
he would rather be
not least
back in bed
pretending
none of this exists

yet he drives
through muddy rivers
that were dry yesterday

headed to a cemetery
wondering
if the plots
are as waterlogged
as the asphalt

wondering
if this line of thought
is disrespectful
yet expecting
to see
the tattered suited corpses
doing the backstroke
down
the lazy streams
of winter rain swept
malaise