Poems for the zooted and the zonked

A death in the country

this also takes place during the storm

the awkward improvisation of beaming farmers

outside the small, humble country house

struggling against the storm

hoisting up a white sheet, flapping in the wind like a ghost

they were trying to set up a gazebo

sharing in the ultimate, non-verbal futility of their efforts

like secondary school boys messing in class

whilst worn, grief-stricken faces of grizzly men draped in big winter coats

totter around with their spindly wives

toward the small, humble country house

pale, monotonous modern cars lined up all down the road

the kinds of cars you never think about unless you see them

i walk into the house alongside my older brother

first, through the cold hallway, dotted with homey ornaments

i shake a man's hand, a relative i presume

i follow the line all the way into the living room

people hug the huddled woman, sharing in each other's sorrows

"she's in a better place"

"sorry for your loss"

words so rinsed you can belt them out like an old song or nursery rhyme

i move up in the line

i see the coffin and the lady in it

a lady i never knew, a lady iv'e only ever seen alive a handful of times

fixed like a wax sculpture, hair intact and shining

with the white cloth concealing her torso like a duvet

i shake the woman's hand haphazardly

oh now i know her,

 yeah, yeah, now i know.

a sunken expression "ah, stuno, thank you for coming" 

as if really not expecting 

a stiff and awkward hug "sorry for your loss" 

not my best performance but i hope it sufficed

i did feel some sympathy but it was clouded

i think back to all the gossip the old crones were chattering of 

about how when she was in the hospital all she wanted to do "was get home"

and how she didn't want to die

and how earlier in the week we drove past her house with no lights on

how cold and hollow it looked

the small, humble country house

once brimming with some sort of frail life

now the first in what i think is a soon to come series of slow takings

i walked out of that house slightly altered

having seen a lifeless body for the first time

and having seen it in such a strange, sugarcoated environment 

with small, polite banter being sputtered about outside, even light jokes

to woeful whinings and teas and cakes inside

i got back in the car

we drove home, through roads and fields scorched by the troubles of the world

and now i think about things sometimes