The Marble Valise

The stillness in Burlington's Aspen Grove,
That solemn sanctuary of remembrance,
Is remniscent of the quiet of a library.
To stretch this simile to a metaphor,
A cemetery is a card catalogue of granite.
Each life's compressed to vital statistics;
A name first, then a publication date,
Then when that tale of life went out of print.
At most, lives are summarized by epitaphs
That read like blurbs on a book's dust jacket.
Pithy statements, like "Loving Husband,"
"Gentle Wife," or "A Christian Gentleman,"
Or a bible verse, or a rhyming couplet;
Grief expressed in conventional fashion.
That's why the bag captures our attention.

A marble valise rests upon a square base,
As though some drummer had just set it down
For a moment, intending to return.
So out of place, this image of business
Amidst this serenity of silent stone.

"You don't sell a product, you sell yourself."

This maxim is drilled into salemen in training.
If a man takes this assertion to heart though,
Each slammed door, curt rebuff and refusal
Becomes a personal rejection.  This young man
Penned this last note before he took his own life.

"My trip has ended.  Send my samples home."

Chiselled on the base beneath the marble valise,
His words of despair, disillusionment and pain
Are there for us to touch like silent scars,
Fossils of anguish forever encased in stone.