Cold
A cold February wind
Crawls up my leg
And rattles my knees
A preacher fumbles
Over the verses
That I know by heart
Why doesn’t he know them?
Quaking, I sit
Watching two unknown
Men folding the flag
Each turn means something; I forget
The coffin is a beautiful wood
I wonder whose grave
This chair is teetering on?
I dare not sit back in comfort
I did that once in a comedy club
Fell over, tore up my
Diamond tennis bracelet, all the rage back then
Everyone thought me drunk, I am sure
Hadn’t even had a drink yet
I wonder who the comedian was?
The flag is presented to the son
Now the standing around begins
I turn up my fake-fur collar
I spy two real minks
I must speak to the son
Before I leave
What will I say?
His arms crush out my words
Unspoken
His tears run cold
Down my neck
I wonder how
I am ever to find Main Street
From this unfamiliar cemetery?
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