Funeral

There is a funeral going on
downstairs
on the ground floor of my flat,
Red eyes all around.

There were people
with sticks and smoke
and those with peanuts and sweets
and red string.

There lay a box
in the tent
and people leant in,
for a glance, a peek,
and they jumped back.

There stood chairs around tables
there sat people on chairs
they wore white shirts, beneath which
they wore hearts
cold, bitter.
Yet their hands
as they held each other tight, were not
so.

I know what it's like
to see the face
of someone you knew
painted pretty for God to take him back

I know what it must be
to look at the hands
and the rosary, his,
draped carefully over each finger,
as if everything he did, he did with prayer

I know the sounds
of sniffs sobs and screams
i know the restraint
and i know the lack of it.

There is a funeral going on
downstairs, and I am but
remembering
with a heart cold, bitter,
numbed.

For a long time now.