My life of limited movement, brought on by my own lack of desire to force myself to exercise, places me in a stuffed chair facing either the television or looking out the three front windows overlooking North Evans Street. One way North Evans is generally a low traffic street except for ambulances servicing Manor Care,a nursing home.
One other traffic generator is Catagnes Funeral Home on Franklin Street who stages funeral processions along Evans Street along the First Presbyterian Church property winding around the corner of Nightengale Street down to Franklin Street. Processions are random in both time and length but they perk my interest each time I see them so I began to wonder why.
The following poem rose from my thoughts about death, ceremonial, and internment, especially internment and the observers of the whole spectacle. I imagine we all have experienced the death of a loved one or a friend where we became part of the pageantry. Have you ever given much thought about those who have previously been interned to below the soil ? Why ?