The parade loops:

mounded coffins on a flatbed
like a Jenga loss,

other people’s children, costumeless,
playing instruments
they haven’t learned to play.

Onlookers reapply their lipstick.

No sentiments
that can’t be spray-painted
onto a bedsheet.

Another flatbed carries
everything you’ve ever owned
still in the original packaging.

An overwhelming desire to pet
all the service animals.