Burying Bones

they are stacked up in museums.
people used to drop them
on the stoop during a moonless night,
the dreary-eyed guard picked them up on his early shift,
tipping them into a box for the museum guard,
he arrived at 10 am when the sun was high in the sky.
what to do with human bones, left without a note,
a tag, a DNA signature, a story.
we make them up and let them rest,
accumulating with so many others, unnamed
and unsung.
and so, we call a funeral for them all, with fried
chicken and coleslaw, potato salad and iced tea.
we'll all say a prayer and bury them together,
the bones will return to the earth from
whence they came.
new treasures will populate the shelves,
until new bones force them to the side
awaiting the next funeral.