Another Funeral And Mine

When someone dies at thirty-six

we’re sorry and wish to console the family,

polishing pews with best-dressed backsides,

bearing a minister’s chestnuts, saying

how good he was, and to ourselves, later,

Ya never know. Ya just never know.

Everything that day seemed of note:

being nearly late, hurrying, thinking,

I am hurrying to John’s funeral,

but also my own. Whenever I hurry,

it’s toward my funeral, yet I need to

today, the champion of slow,

it’s just the day. John worked two jobs.

The best part was a trumpet solo

at the very end, forlorn and slow.

For mine play the call to the post, a horse race.

Then everyone bolt out the door and slow down.