Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.135.215.148

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

You wouldn't like it here, Jeanie,
just look around;
funeral parlor--what a strange expression,
not at all like Mama's sitting room.
I've never seen most of these women,
must be professional mourners.
There stands Grace, acting the role,
counting how many the altar society 
will feed after your funeral mass.
Did you hear Lindy saying how natural
you look deposited there in your casket?
Hell, sweetie, I hate to say it,
but you do look quite dead.
Why don't we split and go get a brew?
I wish we could.
Can you smell the flowers?  I'm getting a headache.
I guess you don't get them anymore.
Remember how we loved yellow roses
and always had them in our gardens?
I don't like that dress you're wearing.
Remember our shopping trips to New York
when we stretched the plastic to increase our wardrobes?
Remember when we were in grade school and
found those puppies by the side of the road who
became members of our families?
Remember how you said that at your funeral
you would wear a pink wig and a red dress
and sit up and talk to everyone?
Don't I wish, Jeanie, don't I wish.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required