cortege

cortege

like an eel,
the cars crawl in a line
over the curling
russet cushioned carpet.

shiny black metal
polished with late afternoon sun,
a solemn, sluggish pace set
as the hearse leads the line.

the leader long silent now.
crisp claret flowers,
mahogany box aglow
in the yellow lights of the evening.

seething toward the grey building
with the bright burner,
were the brass handles will be removed
and sold anew.

as the line stretches,
each trailing car
wanes with importance;
the last car only came for the outing.

slow in sticky traffic
passengers stare forward,
each with a private memory
of the freshly departed:

and as the memory falters,
they ask themselves –

did i set the video?

is the cat in or out?

as the road curves tired,
complicated thoughts bend for the living.
as inside the death box
lifeless trivia slides side to side.

how long will this take?

is it tonight that she has yoga?

did anyone know about that?

they didn’t look ill?

did we use the chicken up last night?

did i tell them i love them?

isn’t it someone’s birthday today?

when did we last fuck?

(first published in Obsessed with Pipework magazine)