An Elegiac for the Sight of New York City from Jersey

for Charon, and a preemptive mournful cry for Alperen Elibol  
On the day he died
they served no dry rice
and I decided that
I would stop eating
corn flakes for breakfast;
the captain's children looked
unhappy - never were too happy -
and the rest of the city
decided 'twas a good day
to sleep in. Not a tear was shed:
no drum-rolls, no bangs, no whys,
no exclamations that scrape
the ears -- only whimpering
reservation. I took a look
at him, and at my father, a dry
man in his dry years with a dried
out brain, and the notion that
everything was meant to dry
and no wetness reserved, not
for the crying eyes, not for
satisfied vaginas, not for seaweed,
not even for the lilacs. I was wet
but only merely, and on the day
I took a look at my hands,
and the death that lied between
the lines of my hand -- within
the palm, troubling the cells.

On the day he died, everyone
took a look at death, none cared,
as if death was a parent that would
come and pick you up and you
were the lonely boy at the
school's playground waiting
shamefully for your parents
to pick you up, who are so very
loveless and so very biological.

On the day he died, or passed 
away, for those of you who are
politically correct and fundamentally
wrong, the museums were closed --
young girls' lips and laps alike.

On the day he died, he did not
cease to be, and I realised that
never was existing such a hefty
task. Life on the other side of
Styx was no different than the
animated. I could not keep it. I cried.