Lies in state resplendent
his old uniform brassy
Shined to a gleam
By someone I don't know
The flies buzz around
Its hot, the power's out
So far he's the only one
Not sweating or cursing
Probably at peace
Probably
The parlor window overlooks
The road to the cemetery
And in the verandah outside
The bench favoured by him
And his band
Where they smoked cigarettes.
Waiting to lead the final journeys
Disuse now writ upon the old bench
there is soft rubbery wood rust
that shows up after the rains
and just stays
Dries and darkens
Like the future of many
Of the perils a long life
the risk of loneliness is the biggest
He would recall certain days and deaths
With sadness and pride
When he led columns of hundreds
And of times when tears didn't dry
Its changing world this is
the young have no clue
Of the proper ways to death
And before that what it is to do
The drummer knew that and more
The town now full of strangers
The parish thin and weakening
The Bugler was the only one left
A wheezer with just half a lung
The wake seems long
And the arrivals few
Some just happened to be
so will stay for the final trip
Those who walk into the parlor
See pictures brought by the son
A life faded but vigorous once
A war and a wedding
some shiny shoes
Some gummy smiles
Him doing the jive
It is time and the Bugler makes
A sorrowful call clear and powerful
Eyes watering from pain
Of lung or bereavement
Who can tell
The body is placed
In Lobo's hearse,
newly repainted
Fittingly
The mourners numbers swell
Every household in the village
Is present here in flesh
And many more in spirit
All ready to go but none moving yet
Till the Drummer's son picks up
The drum and sticks and is adamant
Starts the final journey
His paced out beat not clearly struck
But timed perfectly
A lifetime of listening at work
The Drummer seems at peace
And his final journey marches
To the beat of a different drummer
Quateel Ahmad
2012
