Standing on the corner, waiting to cross the street
during a lunch break at the job,
a long funeral procession drove through the intersection.
The hearse and the limousine appeared washed,
they shined under the winter sun.
The other cars were older, filthy from salt
and road dirt. No one had time
for car washes when their friend or relative
lay dead in a box.

Most of the cars in the endless line
were driven by young men, their jaws clenched,
and their eyes focused straight on the road ahead.
Young women sat in some of the passenger seats,
their eyes puffy and red
as their attention roamed the city.

Eventually the cars stopped.
One sedan was stuck in the middle of the intersection,
driven by an older man, alone.
His eyes met mine, but he stared through me.
I removed my hat and bowed my head,
a gesture in a world we can’t understand
or hope to control.

The procession began to move forward.
Before he drove forward,
the man formed a slight smile
under his tortured eyes.
In those few seconds, he and I mourned
together, without names or histories.
It didn’t really matter.