As we poor outnumber the rich, so evil days to good.
Yet we recall the Sunday picnic antless now
and free of the suit-spotting cloudburst; in memory
the spurned kiss sweet and honeyheavy moment.
Recall too that brilliant episode: Joy
Of The First Paycheck before it became butter,
electric light, shoes, rent, and the dentist.
So this dead man, human as any of us,
ignoring his hall bedroom, the yearlong days
of meaningless degrading job, the fear-flayed nights,
later the pain and worse no-pain of hypodermic—
weeps for his circumstance, wishes to rise
among the mourners hypocrite and hysterical
packed too tight into the rancid room
burdened with foolish flowers and this memo of our own fate.
Funeral Service
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