Mortuary Science

Going to the Jones’s Seven o’clock, not to be too Sharp, the chit chat’s in The oven, slow broil Never rare, never well Always somewhere in the Undetectable middle Timers spinning backwards From the start, the choicest slice Of evening piled in Candle wax, left dripping While feet twiddle Nervously beneath the table Shoes aching for release Bleary lips drambuied Into not knowing why Two forks contest dessert The stain of coffee on White linen marks the Leaving, too late to Retreat from bald replies. (Previously published in The 13th Warrior Review, Asterius Press, Vol.1, Issue 2, November 2000)