Classic Poem

We had the same mother,
the same father,
walked the same streets.
Often we were waylaid
on our way to school
and would scrap side by side.
Our underclothes
with the fresh smell of soap
used to lie
neatly folded
in the same drawer.
(Takes off his tie
and hands it to the undertaker)
" Put this on him.
He was always neat. "

In the end is the man
of flesh.
He leaped into the grave
for that principle.

His habits,
too, were principles.
His voice as a man,
the warmth,
thick in phlegm
far back of the palate.

The eyes
looking inward
a light entering
like a pin head
as a comic memory
came into his mind.
His bearing, modest;
he was taken for ordinary.

How loveable he appears
from this distance!
In the end is the man
of family
I must look at him again.

The features are the same,
though less pinched, less nervous
The color in his cheeks is fairly natural.
There's dignity the way he's stretched out.
Objective cancelled.
Out of work.
Lies as in a pause
Very peaceful
(I don't remember that!)

That's the undertaker's specialty.
The man's gone mad in physics.
I in metaphysics.