the viewing

in the mix
of suits and dark clothing,
women
in vague mourning, and yes,
there are flowers,
there are true tears,
but alone
he stands, the friend,
he keeps saying
over and over again,
how his best friend,
will be missed.
it is more his party than
that of
the deceased, so well groomed,
at last,
lying in comfort near the front.
music is played,
photos in new frames leaning
towards this dim light we stand in.
and the man
in the center of it all orchestrates
the sadness
with a thoughtful whisper,
the sympathetic smile, friendly
disingenuous pats.
our day will come, he says,
now an expert on death. look
how many are here,
we'd be lucky
to have as many when our
day comes,
it's more than luck you whisper,
letting go of his hand,
stepping away from
his fun.