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White Weddings and Wet Funerals

White Weddings and Wet Funerals Final When I was young, And the world crisp, Through the crystalline cold Of November Morning At the parade And we were all caught in the sacred gear grit, Grinding motion Of life in abundance, Pushing crowds out of bounds It was always Thursday morning and the endless invitations in the mail spoke of carousel steeds and white weddings Laughter does not carry like it did, When we were children we are grown old, now, into our parents and grandparents No cause for gathering but for the formality Of informing On the sick and the dying All the white weddings have ended And now, walking with a cane, I grow tired of being mired in the mud Of wet funeals… John tansey

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

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