Bones

He had skeletons in his closet;
I knew how to set them free.
We watch the bones turn to ash
in the October wind.

My blue Bic lighter flicks
and the composition paper burns
down by the water,
down into the earth.

Black ink dances in dust.
it smells like death.
it smells like life.
Breathe a new beginning.

Every wrong he’s done,
and all the wrong done to him
floats into the atmosphere.
Burning, dissipating, crumbling,
resurrecting into gray clouds.

The bones wail and mourn.
The closet is empty.
I wouldn’t let him keep the urn
even if he wanted to.