Monday, March 3, 2014

...................................................Wake


I’m sorry I’m late; it’s such a bad habit
and my mother always said “you’ll be late for
your own funeral” but here I am and really wanted
to see you and say something, but you’ll not be speaking
and I won’t either from this line as I can hear the din of chatter
start to form in meaningful hushes and I count the limited variety
of spoken condolence and wonder if the repetition patterns occur in odd or
even numbers and how many primes there might be if I waited long enough and…
“yes, we schooled together I am so sorry for your loss…yes he was too
young…you must be ….” hey buddy what are you doing there in that box?
Maybe I should kneel and do the sign of the cross and make believe
I’m saying the Hail Mary but I know you knew I never would
and neither would you so we both know its OK but I am
really going to miss you and I am just thinking about
our time together as my thoughts are what I
have now and I think I hate the way they
 combed your hair like you were
ready for first communion.