The Perfect Funeral

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.