I watched the procession of dark colored cars.
They moved slowly across the asphalt.
The heat of the sun made vaporous streams of gas
lift from the soft black stone,
into the air,
like a prayer
to a higher power.
The mourners cried and laughed,
fiddled with their ties and their hair,
and nervously wondered
when their time would come.
Would the Church be filled with their friends?
Would they care,
wherever they were?
The priest pretended to know what he was talking about.
Everyone knew that he was as much in the dark
as they were.
Everyone was happy it wasn’t them
in the coffin.
Everyone was sad that their friend was dead.
Everyone tried to remember the last time
they called his number,
or visited him.
Everyone was glad they weren’t with him,
at the end.
When they put the body in the ground,
I walked in the sun,
to a place in the soft grass,
and prayed to whatever was up there,
that I would be ready
when my time was up.
Until then,
I vowed
to make the world sing,
and the flowers grow,
and the people laugh,
and the music lift
my spirits to heaven.
