Old Man at a Funeral

The talk and songs are finally done
and now the ushers indicate
that pews should empty, one by one,
as one old dead man lies in state.

All walk down the aisle, in line.
Slowly, most heads slightly bowed,
they pass the coffin where the fine
light linen substitutes for shroud.

The widow’s eyes are met by some.
Some touch her hand; she sees some tears.
Some soft whispers. Most are dumb,
passing the corpse of ninety years.

They keep their distance, most of these,
as though by staying far away
they magically may somehow ease
themselves away from death, a day.

But one old man with cotton hair,
assisted by a lady, goes
until the line is near, and there,
he pulls her out of line, and close.

Steadies himself at the casket, takes
its edges in his hands, looks down
into his friend’s face, slightly shakes:
and then moves on, without a frown.