The death of a somebody
Is life affirming.
My favorites attend
In the ante-room,
Eyeshot from the shell.
They appeared to be telling
Off-colored jokes,
Childish giggles, anxious glances.
Others talked nervously on their health,
Their swing and trips, car salesmen, and politics.
Violet remarked on the wedding, the bride's redolent dress,
Brocade and settings.
The vows were personal and promising.
Funeral Home is an ironic euphamism;
But the coffee is strong and bitter,
I burned my tongue.
I didn't see much black, mostly pastels.
It's a multi-media presentation of family,
Old and getting precariously older,
Cavorting at the cottage,
Sitting under Christmas trees,
Holding up scarves and mittens.
Everyone smoked then. Everything's hidden.
Someone's grandson touched his hand,
Then recoiled into the nearest waist.
Except for the flowers and box,
There was vibrancy and planning
Where to meet following the graveside,
For a drink and toast to why we're here,
To why any of us are here at all.

He said he was a veteran of the war
not this last one, but the one before
Operation euphamism conflict desert storm
he said they brought him here straight from the floor

He said they brought the bodies to a rink
And that the ice did not quite help the stink
He could not hold his hand still, he could not hold his drink
He threw up thirty xanax in the sink

There was Rickie, he was twice my age
Hoped it's not too late to turn a page
he told me 'make the best of it', he tought me to play spades
He said meals are the way to split the day

Aerosol computer duster hose
As far as he could get it up his nose
Something about oblivion, ethyl and the cold
Wednesday lunchtime traffic had to slow.

I'm not crazy, I'm just low
I've got nowhere else to go
I'm not sick I'm just upset
As all these thoughts race through my head
I'm so tired of telling lies
Smooth as corbon dioxide.

Victoria had seen and lost her day
She had the makeup tatooed on her face
She just seemed grateful for a place to stay
And wondered of they'd take her kids away.

Three days for tears and slices on her arm
Nine days, my fault for showing them my card
They'd love to do the right thing, and treat us as we are
But good insurance is as rare as heart

I'm not crazy, I'm just low
I've got nowhere else to go
I'm not sick I'm just upset
As all these thoughts race through my head
I'm so tired of telling lies
Smooth as corbon dioxide.