His Funeral

Some of the leaflets displaying his face blew
away in the wind. The widow spoke in fruity blurts.
A man, grinning, kept looking at the sky for telltale
releases of smoke. Bemused, the daughter
acted as if she were viewing everyone’s features
in a Luna Park mirror. The son, shoulders hunched,
loosened his tie and squinted. After the chaplain
offered handshakes and a few lines from Psalms,
everyone trudged across gravel. The widow
rolled her leaflet into a tube. The grinning man
used his to shield his head as the rain approached
like the footsteps of a late mourner. At the café,
waving her leaflet like a ticket, the daughter
lunged for the food. Still standing alone, the son
held his like a testamur for an exam he couldn’t remember
taking or passing. He studied the memorial dates
printed above his father’s face, did the sober accounting.
In a corner his mother dabbed at the crumbs
around her mouth, flaky memorabilia falling
to the floor, the top notes of her perfume flirting
with a pulse in the smiling man’s neck. The son
wondered if his mother would notice that she’d left her leaflet
on the plastic seat along with her used serviette.