The Deceased One

Her empty bedroom,
her vacant bed--
as if she’s stepped
into an elevator
then pushed a button,
a raised radiant eye,
a means to flight,
a talisman that’s whisked her
to the highest floor,
a level beyond our reach….

Meanwhile, we’re glued here,
still subjected to icky weather, complexities,
emotions, vexing thoughts, odors, crimes.
Psyched out, frowning,
we glance around, filter, search
before finally accepting
what we already sensed:
she must have ascended,
cushioned on an elevator’s rubber rug,
soft yet supportive
like a simple Raphael cloud,
a singing evolving cloud-puff
going to where a weathervane points:
a horizon too bright for our sight.