The somber bereaved make their reluctant way

To where the even more somber family hovers  

At the ostentatious coffin, greeting the familiar

And barely remembered in the rituals of sympathy.

Perhaps it is only the deceased who understands

The hypocrisy of most who have come to mourn

A death and celebrate a life, neither of which they

Cared about when caring might have mattered.

(“. . .hadn’t seen him in twenty years. . .”)

(“. . .looks so peaceful. . .”)

(“. . .it was for the best. . .”)

(“. . .at rest in a better place. . .”)

But it is the flowers now, red roses in this Rose Room,

That push their thoughts to me through the heavy

Suffocating air, petals pulsing, like parts of a heart

But more perfect, and in their perfection such fragility.

They know they are dying: gasping of air growing thick

In a blood red shimmering, the final irony of choking

On their own essence, odor of old age and sickroom.

His pale petaled hands, the rosewood and red satin.