They sit straight in a row, like jackdaws on a line;
three women, garbed  in black, on uncomfortable metal  chairs.
They speak in low murmuring voices.
Their eyes are fixed upon the burnished Bronze casket
at the front of the chapel.
The casket that contains
All that remains
of the cancer riddled ruin of a man.
Their eyes are downcast, their ankles tightly crossed.
They have come to console their sister for her loss.
She is one of them now; she has joined in their number.
Indifferent wives make excellent widows.