Smoking Cubans, behind decrepit mausoleums
    relieving ourselves on Daisies -- sickly sweet coloring
    the odor of rotting carcui as diggers "archaeolagize"
Aunt Matilda and her new Monday morning bridge
    club who all happened to become such good friends
    after they were buried together,

The thought comes that,
The apple pie left on the windowsill
Must be eaten by the crows by now,
And all the cigarettes RJ's made
Must be stale too.