On a Funeral Procession

Strobing lights shining in front,
the parade of cars lumbered past,
of old ladies wearing bright flowers
and black dresses of a certain caste.

To the syncopation of my blinker,
I waited and watched, listening,
struck dumb to the dark sight
of death’s recent christening.

As the painful parade went on,
sad faces drooped and dropped longer;
I sat and waited at my turn,
and my resentment grew stronger.

From those stopped and staring patiently,
what did the ashen faces want,
as their bald wheels moseyed down
on their morning mourning jaunt?

Our choral respect for the dead
quickly passed, forgotten, buried,
in my heart a rising passion
and a pain in my swiveled head.

Impotently looking for a break,
I sat and waited some more,
to cut home with my groceries
and get on with the daily chores.

The last long sedan passed, waving flags,
and I whipped around the corner, gunning gas,
snarling at my torturous wait,
driving in zigs and zags fast.

I bundled up my hurt little man
and tucked him at last neatly away,
knowing how awful and ugly he is,
until I need him again another day.

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