For the Funeral Order the black cars The host lies in state Order the flowers He’s awake The vantage point From the ceiling The smell of sadness like a flavor The empty shadowed room No voices could fill anything but the sound In the empty spaces in the walls Morning falls Like a weight on shoulders broken and spent Wondering where hours went The waiting-the glass suspended on the edge of the table Clumsy fingers of children Hushed parental cues The vantage point around the fireplace Watching the dressing room Finished getting ready The widow puts her makeup on Black is the color of daylight Shines through the window Like a sickness I don’t understand the words you speak The priest Smiles Ensures peace And silently Walks in the room The director slinks out like a serpent A sad reckless play-where no one will remark On the substance or how well the lines were delivered The host is sainted No one asks the question Where No one would dare Order the room The cash bleeding out of the home Read the will Get your fill of the darkness As it leaves With the mourners And left alone, we are fragile China In the kitchen We are broken dirty dishes In the sink A final drink before sleeping We are awake We are staring at the ceiling And the host lies in the ground No sounds Only an empty shell Even now winding down The slow earth, the careful shovel The indifferent ground Staring at the ceiling the widow cries And a hand from the ceiling a bleeding sky Touches the face With the spring breeze It’s only epitaph Remember me……… |
