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.”