The Funeral Director: A Poem

Hated us, as we bickered in front of the casket.

He said often he’d seen familial debris

unknowingly flex its muscles to coax any racket,

so the dead can rise and pry

apart our clenched teeth.

Said he’s witnessed the wreckage leak the blame game.

Explained that when the deceased

explode into the light, all the crazies

 

dissolve into one pocket of space, backlit

and defiled. He hated us because he knew

we were petty gelatin. That one day we’d be dead too

and the hue of incrimination would be transmitted

 

and final. The funeral director was glad to see us go.

He knew the dead man would be better off.

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