Classic Sinatra
Frank died the same day
that Mom did, their essence
mingling with the marrow
of others meeting their own demise.
Sinatra may have been singing.
Mom may have been humming along.
The slaughterhouse barely opened —
its barn-red paint flaking in the sunlight;
decay and deterioration running rampant
among the bodies of those left behind.
Their rotting wood floors no longer holding
the necessary weight to carry on.
Medications bulldoze and demolish any scant
health left, their bodies razed like aged sheds
in abandoned fields, slow-dance
with dying, no longer trying to pilfer
another long day — butchered and broken
into mingled segments of back story.
I prefer to think that Mom and Frank
danced the night away in that old barn.
There might have been dragonflies.
The sun may have been shining.
by Annette Gagliardi
Published in Pasque Petals, Spring 2022, South Dakota State Poetry Society.