Over the Bunker Hill

People are rather
Fond of palaver
About surviving
Whatever, living
Free, off of the grid,

But rarely chatter,
Rarely envision
The fun that will come
Once whatever’s gone
Down outside their snug

Refuge from all storms
Is done and their bones
Still maunder along
On bones’ own schedule,
Until that morning,

Far from accident,
Far from injury,
Far from plague, combat,
Or poisoned water,
When the body sighs,

Well that’s it, it’s time
To be a body
Getting on with it,
Let’s go, time to start
Dying off the grid.