Poetry

"A Stranger's Crepe"

She always began with "And

Visiting hours will be from" and

Worked it into her working hours and

Something in it had to be just so,

Couldn't be just any or potluck,

Something in the name or in the

Closeness, the closeness, probably "family and friends"

that was it

in many ways, she felt that. So she noted and attended.

It was the best way for family and friends,

No doubts, no shouts and accusing fingers

She had all that, all times anyway, more than plenty

So in the quiet parlored closeness, knowing no

One, the smells embraced her, welcomed her there

In scent of lilies, cologne and after shave, and then

The priest, yes, she always watched for the priest

The chatting stopped when he crossed himself

To pray and then to speak of the person there

Laid out, the one she didn't know, for sure, on

Purpose, knew only in the newspaper that morning,

And had to be that way, for sure, or all else failed

It's all in the mystery of not knowing and the testaments

To their goodness, their worthiness to friends and family

Just like in church, the mystery of not knowing Him

But knowing him in the words from those he went with,

Yes, like church only this is better, it's closer and

He is here, laid out, almost real, you wait for him

To speak, but better, because they speak for him,

Just like in church, but with the smells and chatter

And the sobbing and the children, all better in this

Stranger's crêpe that hangs for him only

In her mind, much, much better.