The stranger at our table-Part Two

You used to shout at me like thunder.
Now you just attack me with a look.
You watch me black and blue.
When the milk is cold or when there aren't enough
Oats in your porridge.
I am kind and I am good.
I don't complain when you send me back to the kitchen.
Again and again and again.

The postman knocks at the door.
He hands me a package, addressed to you.
Your eyes light up when you take off the wrapper.
They are catalogues with funeral paraphernalia.
You call it 'pornography' for the dying.
And laugh at your own tasteless joke.

You start to write down all the things you would like to order.
As if you were making a birthday list.
You choose a red satin lining for the shiny Ebony Kist.
And solid silver handles which won't rot underground.
You rather like the purple candles and choose at least a dozen.

When you have made a number of choices you ask me to hand you the bible.
So you can communicate with God.
He is the one you talk to most, for he will get you into the everlasting life.
You read me all kinds of passages, I feign interest and do my best to look riveted.
Meanwhile my mind wanders off to the pancakes I will be making tonight.