Wake

We placed a pine box casket on a sawhorse table. There weren’t but little notice, did as best we able. I watched the flowers wilting in the heat of August. It seemed a shameful squander given what they cost us. She was a stoic widow, though a might diminished. She clutched a carved wood angel, one he never finished. Then came a stovepipe preacher, smelled of hair slick tonic. He kept his manner formal and his speech laconic. It was a simple service in a smoke wood setting, Another taproot sermon I’d be soon forgetting. He hammered nail to cross the way the Good Book reckon, “All sinners need God’s mercy when The Judgment beckon.” He spoke some other hoo-ha ‘bout “The Lord's forgiveness,” And I just shucked it off to get about my business. I might be pissin’ sawdust when it come to prayer, But when they toss on vittles, count me first hoss there.