The Last Hurrah
Cars line the curb - last hurrahs,
the last of pseudo praises,
or as Mom would say in the midst of a eulogy
"Do I know this person"?
Praises never thought of
while life strode so proudly blind.
As the bumble bounces on the hydrangea,
sadly, other blossoms are forgotten
while the most proud was overappreciated.
How many days/years until
my blossom is forgotten - left to pink
and wither in winter's shadow
then pale and blown away
before spring knows it's missing
...or even cares.
I'd much rather a fist raised in anger
and celebration "The bastard's finally dead!"
- Not a whisper when parting,
"You got a tee time for Monday?"
The cars line the curb, yet will they leave
simply thankful they came "for the family"
or will they give a damn … pause and say
"I will miss him".
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