Cody Marby

is a stillborn bunk
     with its pillow waiting patiently,
its sheets hospital-cornered,
    blanket tucked (inspection ready)
photographs of home taped with care
    upon the brushed metal
in the spot where tired eyes
    are forced to rise each day.
 
is a pair of coveralls
    still hanging in its locker,
forever carrying the weight
    of a name no longer present
to join the ranks formed
    on the weather deck
each morning—long before
    a bright star rises in the east.
 
is an empty seat
    at a table fit for twelve,
a silent conversation
    between those who hunger
more for answers than sustenance
    provided to the living
to consume in remembrance
    of those who shall not rise again.