What still needs to be done
If I stand up I’ll run
Screaming from the room
Or go for a walk and park
Myself on a bench by water
I recite the psalm of the new leaves
Or say Kaddish for the old trees
Which says nothing about death
But praises the living who mourn
Not death but the trouble
Of being born over and over
I mean who picks up after you
And who’s going to have to
Get rid of all these boxes
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