a quick stop along the way

in the cold April rain,

in thick traffic, the lights

on,

you get stuck

in a funeral procession.

you can't get out,

so you

go along.

it circles into the cemetery

where you

get out of your car

and follow

the crowd

to the graveyard.

people smile

and pat you on the back,

giving you

comfort for your loss.

they ask

you to say a few words.

so you do.

quoting a poem by

T.S. Eliot.

April is the cruelest month,

you say,

breeding lilacs out

of the dead land,

mixing memory and desire,

stirring dull roots with

the spring rain.

let's us pray, then

you shake hands

with the mourners and 

off you go.