The Funeral
The sandwiches taste of sorrow.
Cookies crumble into tears.
The coffee is as weak as my knees
And I stumble to one of
The uncomfortable low chairs
Not made to comfort,
No arms made to hold.
There is endless murmuration
Of voices and bodies swirling
From photo array to photo array,
Exchanging stories and condolences,
Memories from so many corners
Of a life of many rooms.
This room, the last,
Has no door from which
I will ever be allowed to escape.
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