Take Her Home, Old Man

The eggs Benedict try their hardest to settle
their greasy hollandaise place within my stomach
as I approach the red light
trying not to let my bald tires skid
on the cold and wet macadam.
A series of cars comes crawling by
in the opposite lane
led by a hearse and a limousine.
Minivans, luxury sedans, economy subcompact
commuter death-traps, and contractor grade
pick-up trucks roll by in the procession
all clearly designated with flags that say
'Funeral' on the red and white-crossed rectangles
fastened to their rooves via magnets.
There are loosened ties, one stiff white collar
on a priest paid overtime, and see-through scarves
on see-through women. Most of the faces
are pensive, if not utterly anguished.
I'm too far to notice tears through the
trails of neutral rain, but there must
be some there. Dying is a change
that most people can't handle.

My heel taps against the
floormat in tune to the beat of my stereo
while the ball of my foot holds the brake.
Then a car comes along with four happy passengers
who would seem to be regurgitating a performance's
best jokes on their way home from a comedy club
if that dismal flag wasn't fastened to their vehicle.
The light turns green in the corner of my eye
and I roll on to face the day and what it may bring
of my grandmother's fate in the hospital
suddenly comforted by the fact that at least
four folks know what it is to die well:
A celebration of having lived at all.