Everyday my cells are dying.
Admittedly I play favorites
and mourn certain cells,
create small cardboard coffins,
urns the size of thimbles,
place small ribboned posies,
and pronounce a eulogy over them.
To them, my actions are devastating,
a sneeze a hurricane,
exfoliation an exodus,
a stubbed toe the angel of death.
Sometimes I think of their
tiny souls, heading heavenward en mass,
lining up at the pearly gates
to hear their names called,
each by each,
or a lever is pulled
and they descend
into a hell of a large green lawn,
a mower purring in the distance,
eternal torment
through a never ending itch.