And on the Eighth Day...

The dead rose up
And shuffled slowly to the pub.
They crowded around me
And pawned their jewelry.

Rings, necklaces, cufflinks
Plucked from their own graves.
They bartered for drinks
They could not taste.

They shoved and elbowed me
Leaned in and pushed up to the bar.
They stumbled and waved for the bartender.
There was only one.

It was Monday and otherwise empty.
A bowl of neglected pretzels.
One lonely muffin in a case by the register.

Who eat's a muffin at a pub?

And the dead were thirsty.
They ordered stiff drinks
With well spirits
And poured them down
Papery gullets straight away.
The drinks splattered on the floor
Flooding through holes in stomachs and throats.

And they ordered another
And another.
I didn't want to say anything,
But they pushed up beside me
Shouting, waving, insisting.

I turned and asked,
"What's the deal, fellas?
Afterlife not cracked up
Like they lay it out in
Those goddamn books?"

"Brother," one said in
Careful, quiet tones,
His breath stale and bitter.
"You don't know the half of it,"