A Sixty-Bag Departure

Some day your life is ending up in thirty-gallon bags
on the street, and the rest of it will be shipped
in boxes to people who think it's overdue.

Think of stone faces of Stoics laughing in museums.
Hold that thought when they pull the plug
and you flatline to your debriefing.

I figure for sixty bags and thirty boxes
and hanging around just long enough
to make sure nobody's jumping up and down.

You won't be looking for me when you come back,
shared blood having always made us invisible to each other,
so when I hear you laugh that will suffice to make us free.