At the Funeral Parlor

When Grandpa lay before us at the wake, His youngest daughter pestered everyone To place their fingers on his chest or take His folded, papery hands in theirs. Her son Did it because he was her son; but we Drew back, uncertain at her want of tact. Out in the hall, a woman bitterly Hissed in our ears, that was no way to act.

But no one knew how, and I felt relief That she seemed to, at least. My cousins drank The coffee with the powdered cream, and grief Stirred all about us, while our faces, blank, Awaited summons to the casket side, Where someone prayed and several others cried.