Funeral Aroma
I am hugged by perfume
Long after the bodies depart.
Wafting
Like exhaust from a plug-in mist;
As I zip and unzip my jacket.
These ladies that held me close
Out of remembrance for the dead
And me, yes me.
Sandwiches in triangles
Staked high among stale
Coffee and bad breath.
A priest walks table to table
Like a restaurateur saying:
I know most everybody here,
Yet draws a blank when he shakes
My hand. It could be the perfume
That does not match the man.
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