It's three in the morning.

Shorter funerals

I saw a little girl,
on my way back home from a funeral.

She hinges her arm behind,
holding her mom's with the other.

What do you know?
It looks like she's the one comforting her,
Protecting her,
Taking care of her mother.

While an arm sways up and down at her face.
Holding a cigarette with the other.
Sometimes he swings the burning cig up,
Each time the trajectory climbs closer.
To the little girl's eyes.

What do you know?
She's still gripping her mother's hand,
Eyes leveled, boots on tiles, mouth purses.
Giving the older woman strength.

Sometimes he bends and leans down at her,
Before resuming to take a drag,
And puff it off, turning his head.
As if it'll do more damage than what he's doing.

At some point,
The girl crouches down at a plant on the road.
You know, the kind that looks the same.
And she saw me through the branches of green.

I point my index finger at her,
thumbs up, an eye close and everything.
And then.
Bang.

The cig falls next to the plant
with the man's foot coming down.
He walks off to the plastic bike next to the fence.
The older woman followed.

The little girl looks at me across the street.
And point her index finger,
thumbs up, an eye close and everything.
Pointing at the man's back.
Bang.

I don't judge,
comment,
recreate,
conclude things I know half of.
As much as some things in this world are
as palpable as they seem.

So on the rest of the way.
All that's on my mind is,
'The world could use shorter funerals.'