Journal

The trade publication
from my Union's international office
hits my mailbox
like an arm overloaded with grocery bags.
I sit on the shitter
and scan the death notice section
neatly softened
by the phrase "Benefits Paid".

The ages are posted.
I cringe at the kids in their 20s.
Last names I recognize
from distant Locals
pop out and make me ponder
if there's any relation
to Brothers I know.
A few funeral homes are printed
as recipients of funds.
With no Next of Kin
the Coffin Man gets his reward.
I think of the Loners
I've met pulling wrenches
and love them.

But then there's the 94-year-old
with two women listed
as collectors of his Legacy.
He got them.
He won.
I laugh and stand for the paper.

Flushing the day
and its transgressions
the magazine closes itself.