Dark, cool room
flowers on both sides of her coffin
quiet classic country playing.
her favorite Patsy Cline hits.
“Mother” written on a bouquet of red
like a saddle on a brown maple stallion.
Maybe Bertha was riding Trigger to heaven,
no one said, I wouldn’t ask. I was twelve.
Sporadic cackles rang through this veil of death,
old ladies’ laughing I thought peculiar.
Finally a man of the cloth, reminded me of a Sloth,
stood up and started the flames of Hell,
my bow tie tightened and sweat poured in harmony
with the old man’s words..
What a perfect funeral I heard a woman say.
I scurried to the Men’s Room to give a child’s only gift.