Beside the Funeral Home


by Richard Greene

Twice a month, I watch special delivery

of modish coffins for customers anxious

not to be caught dead in the ordinary

or to neglect the last public decencies

and so send parent, aunt or cousin abroad

again with no mark of comfort or success.

The undertaker's under-men gravely load

each empty coffin onto a folding cart

and then walk it from the alley to be stowed

behind a show-room where any broken heart

costs twelve grand and death looks like a Pontiac,

chrome-detailed and rust-proofed in every part.

But once cigarettes are stubbed on the sidewalk

and a monk in saffron robe has struck the gong

the cortège is led out by the Cadillac.

Cars reach slowly into traffic and are gone,

a sad departure for these new arrivals,

from a funeral home that calls itself “Wing On.”

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