Mortuary

for PML

"Hi Sweetie. Coming home,"

was the last message she left

on your home phone,

so now, bereft,

you get gallows-ironic

about it,

since you won't go superstitious

or religious.

"How about that shit?"

you ask us in the service,

while we get more and more nervous

you'll collapse

right here and now

forever

during your furious eulogy

of her.

"Hit by a fucking breadtruck!

Can you believe it?"

you shout at us. Yes, we can.

No, we cannot.

Husband your grief now,

since you must.

It can't be taken from you.

Don't leave us.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated May/Jun 2005
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