Here in the warm rooms above the snow locked streets
the spirit drinks light through slanted blinds.
Traction-whining tires ascend the brilliant afternoon
to the sky’s blue bound synagogue.
Staging the perfect wintry funeral, undertakers
breathe smoky last directions on the ear-
muffed hired drivers. Drugged mourners in their furs and a lone
policeman dozing at the squad car wheel
are less alert to grief and duty which if met
wholeheartedly would snap black lids
on everyone. Homecoming schoolchildren are routed
from their snow fight when the cased deadman,
his last prayers swirling like an incense past, is shouldered
down the icy porch and lifted back
inside his limousine theatre. Undozed the cop
is out in white gloves now, persuading
gawking unescorted autos past the cortege.
The chief of undertakers in
a rakish Homberg waves one hugely onward arm.
The Cadillacs respond by giving gas.
Encasing mourners row on row, and trailed by pearly
exhaust, they roll the white miles down
to a far hard grounded burial. Rebounding children
whirl like furies hurling a sky-
bound snow barrage, as the synagogue shuts down.
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