The Funeral Buffet
Heard a thud.
Ignored it, or pretended I did then,
quiet, waiting for the cars to pull up.
Silken lilies with flame tongues guard an empty stage,
straight-backed chairs circle his replacement,
efficient, A4 framed,
zigzag blonde hair,
a road vanishing on the horizon.
On the threshold,
the smell of pot-pourri, perfume, fleeting suits,
softly spoken, every word kind,
only cups and saucers chatter,
like megaphones held to their chests.
The little boy in the green shirt cradles ginger,
he’s an old cat.
Later, he passes dirty plates, marching over.
I stare at the birdhouse, wanting to see a family home,
father off to work, squawking kids,
but there it stands.