"Eternal Pastures" is a lie

Hidden under long shadows
broken arms of dead willows.
High up, a Midwestern sun.
The air, thin and cool
whispering songs around me
about Wisconsin cheese.

So I looked about, my
eyes and feet wandering
near, towards, around. So
careful not to touch
that shined face, or
her many same companions.

Not friends. Just names,
rows and rows of names.
neighbors who would never
say "hello", though perhaps
years ago together they
gossiped on fat gray phones.

So here she sat with
her same blood. Her face up
to heaven, her dressed body
in the manicured grounds
of plastic-green grasses. An
eternal life by a lake.