as rumors fly in the parking lot
like germs between unwashed handshakes.
Mostly clad in black
true troopers find ways to laugh.
The rounds are made with tactical dodging.
Women cry in tandem
while those gone gray feel guilty.
Two boxes of photograph prayer cards
perched above the book of names
are empty, but an usher reassures
that more are being made.
It's his job to offer falsified comfort
short of shallow hugs and a drink.
An employee choked by a crooked half-Windsor
is cursing at the printer in an office no one sees.
A wandering vagabond smiles with eyes
remembers the shots of Sambuca at Larry's
while loitering in a room of folding chairs
that's carpeted like the Titanic
and freshly festooned with flora of the purest.
"Hot off the presses," that usher jests
when he sees a laminated likeness in hand
unaware that his flippant remark
is a bullet
the same as that needle
that brought us all here.
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