Words Wake

So Iron John died
After a long life,
Combative writer,
Intense reviser,
Shadow far from us

Unspooling in our
Anonymity,
Who aren’t fighters, nor
Lovers, nor talking
Stick men. Rest In peace,

Frequent translator,
Poet against war.
After funerals
Of such esteemed hosts,
Bereft words gather

With slices of cake
Or cups of coffee,
Maybe just a splash
Of whiskey in them,
By the green sofa

In sunlit dust motes,
Away from the main
Clusters of mourners,
To chat and discuss,
Perhaps to compare.