The broom, though taller than a smaller self
still could be managed for the simple chores—
sweep neat the cement floor of the garage
near where the hearse was parked, then
clean the corner hutch—and everywhere—
of tiny, hard, perfectly round pellets
left by the pet rabbit who resided there.
His name was Happy, and who wouldn’t
want to stroke his sweet angora fur?
Happy also had a job: to fold into himself
quite small and wait—we can’t say where—
until such time as he was pulled, held high,
like magic, from the top hat Daddy wore
to do his tricks onstage between the wakes.
In between his shows, when life was
full of funerals, Happy took his holidays,
was left to roam just as he pleased
as if he were a household cat.
Who can remember when the rabbit died?
It was so long ago, taken for granted
like the drift of ordinary days passing
from sleight of hand to the embalming room.
And where is Happy now? You could say dust,
dumbfounded by the questioning itself, or
living in a rare, strobe-lit mirage, about
a rabbit, downy soft, who waits for magic
crouched beside a hearse, in a garage.