Finding a door that isn't locked
Peeking inside, then a voice and greeting,
"It's about to start," she said.
I replied, "Is this a funeral?"
"Yes."
Finding a lonely seat at the back
Watching people chuckle through the door
That smiling woman's dress is luminescent pink
And that whole row is in pale shirts and khakis
Funeral?
The room begins to hum with conversation
People turn in their seats like school children to talk
The only glitter is on the jacket of her in front of me,
Not a tear in a roomful of mourning faces
Respect?
Everyone seems so vogue--
Three seats up, a greyscale fur coat,
Leather, matching purses, gelled hair
Would I want these people at my funeral?
Stylish?
Stylish, but never cared about me
Rich enough to change the world
But not enough to buy proper attire
These aren't friends; friends love something:
Me.
The humming stops; a figure takes the podium
She stands there over half a minute,
Total silence, as she holds back her tears
"My Mama," she says, and my heart is broken
Love.
Tears fall for the departed I never knew
And when her daughter quits the stage
I think about my mommy and loving her
And about all those I've lost
Death.
"I requested no black because she wouldn't want us to be sad today,"
The words of the daughter ringing in my ears
My thoughts turn to those I accused of disrespect
I'd want them at my funeral, because real friends don't just love me, they
Understand.
YOU ARE READING
Blind Leading Blind
PoetryMy third book of poetry. Sometimes I just can't see, yet somehow I find words, and if someone understood them, they'd look around and wonder where I led them. And I couldn't say. I couldn't say. -October Listen, in the peace of nonpursual. Words yo...
