I’m have a hard time
accepting that I have a
skeleton inside of me.
I mean, a skeleton.
And of all things.
What am I,
some kind of monster?
Why not some-thing practical,
like a kick-ass bicycle?
If all our inner parts, when re-assembled,
could make a dirt bike,
imagine how we would look at death.
It would be a time not only of deep mourning,
but sick jumps & wheelies.
I’ve only ever known my great-Grandfather
as a skeleton,
because that is the only
photograph we have of him.
We have a painting of my great-grandfather,
but it’s of a skeleton too,
as it was painted from the photograph
I have no memories
of my great-Opa.
I was too young. Although my family
insists that I look a lot like him.
Or, maybe, that I will one day,
after all my skin is gone.
But, again, as I said at the start,
that is all a big IF