An undertaker greets me
long fingers grip mine.
Thermometer eyes pop from a face,
red and bloated as a stuffed lobster,
dead as one too,
pressured cooked in a stiff collar.
Face plastered in one position,
a frown.
Inch my way into the parlor:
smell of flowers overpower me,
nauseous, shaky and giving jerky
looks over my shoulder, it's creepy.
I remember his loud laughter
winning a game of cards;
shrill bets at Famous Joe's and
the time he dropped his wallet
into a pitcher of beer;
vivid memories,
gems without a flaw.
I look down to see,
a face at peace, as it never was;
freeing me from the fear
of finality in death,
I whisper,
sleep my friend,
sleep, my time is yet to come
and don't forget, you owe me ten dollars:
the Skins lost again!
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