like himself,
she says to me,
whispering,
nudging me
in the ribs
as we inch past
the coffin.
he looks different
somehow,
not the same from
what i remember.
it's because
he's dead,
i tell her
as i steer her out the room
and towards the long
table where
the food is.
he's been dead for
almost a week.
you should see me
on a
Sunday morning
after i've gone out drinking
the night before.
can i fix you a plate?
some shrimp maybe?
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