Classic Poem

Brown as the ground
yet not ground. As the dirt
yet not dirt though
dirty. Tooled
but not tools,
soled but not
solo or soiled
and in my hands
brown, suffering,
unsoled. Today,
as my oldest friend is cremated
and I dress,
two gaping mugs —
comedy, tragedy —
cordovan lipped,
mustachioed, grave,
wail by the bed.