We got the call and went to visit mem.
No vigil. Just a business transaction.
Numbers, at least, we could try to comprehend.
She spoke of insurance, rings, inheritance.
Bryson got pep’s final slice of cherry pie.
Walter got the fresh-pressed suits and ties.
The funeral was a complete fucking lie.
Father spoke of the glory of Jesus Christ.
He’d never known the glory of Gene Lemay,
Who only went on Sunday to keep mem satisfied.
When I, questioning Catholic boy, once tried
to speak to pep about my doubts –
Over Oreos he said he’s always known
there’s nothing after. He winked,
“But what’s the harm?” Yet here we are.
Nobody allowed to stand and spin a yarn about
the nicest man we’ve ever known. Bless us, then,
O Lord, with trusts and pensions. When
do we canonize a life so well-insured? We never
Shared a beer, told war stories. Just diet cokes.
Crepes. He had – cold turkey – thirty-eight
years. Yet here we are. From thy bounty
through Christ, our lord,
note: this is one of a series of poems in a chapbook I’m working on entitled “yellows”. to read them in their intended order, start here.