Columbarium

In a columbarium, only the echoes of the long,

Linoleum corridors speak back to the grieving

The breeze rolling off withered flowers that hang

Unbalanced off the chipped marble, stained

With the faded lipstick of the widows

Occasionally, the sweeping broom of the janitor

Breaks the ambiance, and if not her,

Then the “poo-tee-weet” of the birds

Resting on the branches of the unbothered palms

Your voice is no longer a memory

Your face has faded into the background

Only the chipped marble placard remains

In its false decorum 

Yet, it will remain far longer than any joy or anger or calm or love 

That you’ve brought to those who flip through your photo album

This photo album, however, that rests under the bed

Has collected years worth of dust

Like the fake flowers that hang off your placard

Because those last longer than real ones