An old one I’m revising.

Snatchers

My dead uncle came out of the restroom
casually, like last year’s cancer
couldn’t concern him. He’s taller now,

less grey and grave. I was tempted
to offer him popcorn, a drink,
or to sidle close enough to feel

if he still radiates. The dead flock
to crowds where a jowl’s droop recalls
Generalissimo Franco, that ruddy

cheek, my dad. Too many faces
reappear in theater lobbies or produce
stands. The dead should not touch

the strawberries. The dead should stay,
stay where they are and await my company.