I pulled myself through the lecherous carpet,
used the torn, stuffing-spilled, arm of the couch
to hoist myself to the door.

I opened it, only to find Wayne.
"Why didn't you answer your phone, *******?"

I rubbed my red eyes,
cleared my throat, stutter-stepped
with my speech, finally finding my
footing, I asked,
"What are you talking about, man?"

"I called you last night, like 6-or-7 times."

"I had a time of it."

"Yeah, I can see that by the aura of class you are emitting."

"Oh, *******. Why are you so dressed up?"

"That's why I called, you ******* hermit.
Samantha's mom died, on...uh, Wednesday, I think. The funeral is in an hour."

"Gloria's buddy, Sam?"

"Yeah, man."

"****. Okay, well let me at least change clothes, spray on some cologne."

I went to my closet, all the clothes were half-*****,
engaging in an **** on the floor, all the hangers watching, naked,
lonely.

Dug through the mess,
until I uncovered a tie, a white shirt, and some pin-striped pants.
I draped myself in the clothes,
grabbed a pair of sunglasses,
parted my hair,
took a stick of deodorant to my pits, three sprays of cologne,
out the door.

"Where is the funeral?"

"It's off of Sherman Boulevard, not far from Beanie's Coffee."

I got in his passenger seat.
He was listening to Nick Drake's first cut,
which somehow seemed to fit the mood I was in.
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
He didn't.
I had made sure to grab my pack of cigarettes
before we left.
Last night's mistakes were still blaring their siren
in my echo chamber of a head,
so anything with a chemical
function to dull the noise,
was a welcome friend.

The funeral was outside,
behind some strangely styled funeral parlor,
circa 1978.
When we made the corner,
the first people we saw were Gloria's parents.
Her dad, stoic, distant like always,
her mom, crying her eyes out, body already
shaking, and all the sentiment was still to be spewed.

They cast stones from afar with their eyes,
I nodded,
shifted my focus onto anything my gaze could find.
Which ended up being Gloria,
such has always been my luck.
She was in a long black skirt,
and a light jacket.
The wind lifted her black hair
in a sweeping, yet uniform movement.
Her lips were painted a deep maroon.
I sat down a couple rows behind,
stared at the back of her head,
while some puppet in a tie
talked about how Sam's mom
is kicking it in heaven.

I heard very little,
I was pretty hungry,
so I leaned over to Wayne,
"Are there any places around here to eat?"

He just stared at me like I was an absolute idiot.
**** him.
People started to walk toward the casket one row at a time.
It was one of those funerals.
Open caskets have always ****** me off.
It's horribly disrespectful to put the recently deceased
on display so everyone can stare with fascination,
as if it's some sideshow attraction at a carnival.

That thought aside,
I looked at Sam's mom as I walked by,
and you know how people always
say **** like, "Aw, well they did a good job,
it looks just like her," they did a rather ****-poor
job with this one.

Her face was a series of unusual lumps,
scattered like the foothills of northern Arkansas.
Her mascara was everywhere,
her cheeks rosier than Santa's *** cheeks,
and the whole spectacle spiraled me into an awful mood.

As everyone was standing around waiting for the processional,
I asked Wayne, "Where is Sam?"

"Dude, they got in a car wreck. Sam's still in the hospital.
She ain't doing too hot. How did you not know that?
They even said it during the service."

"I was really hungry, man."