by Witt Wittmann

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
his tears run cold
down my neck
I wonder how
I am ever to find Main Street
from this unfamiliar cemetery?

©Wittmann 2006

Last updated May 02, 2015