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Funeral Home

I saw a man standing outside our local funeral home the other day and my heart broke. It was like I was him for a split second. I stared as we drove by, grasping every last detail of him but no one in the car even noticed him. He haunts my writing.

It’s been a week

But I was sitting in the backseat

And we drove past a funeral home

And there was a man standing outside


In black pants a black shirt and a certain numbness about him

Made me wonder who he lost?

His wife, his child, his brother, his mother?

How king had he been standing there?

Seconds, minutes, hours?

What loss made him so comfortably numb

He stood in the heat of a July afternoon in black clothes in front of a funeral home?

He wished he could go back

And say all the things he wanted to say

And he wished it was socially acceptable

To scream them to the sky

The bright, unforgiving sky

Brutality never looked so appealing within clouds

Death never looked so peaceful-

He looked so tired, so exhausted

Like it was him in the coffin instead

Like it was him who was just inspected for cause of death

Metaphorically, he was

A part of him had just been cut open that he will never be able to stick back up

His mother never taught him how to sew

And now it was too late

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