Fog clings to the tree's

As we step away from the limo.

"Shouldn't the dead be the celebrities?"

A passing thought, pushed

Away by the grass, still glistening with dew.

The pallbearers are sweating under scrutiny.

"Isn't everyone at a funeral?"

They're all wrapped in tuxedoes,

With me off to the side in T-shirt and jeans,

Clutching tombstones for support.

Glistening like a newly-washed brain,

The priest cleaves the crowd,

Warding off tears with glasses and a bible.

He recites the prayer, same as every funeral,

And passes out white lilies.

I can smell the dirt, but it's not dirty.

The coffin is before me, black and shiny,

Like a Kafka-sized beetle.

Flowers are laid to rest,

And my aunt is receding into dust.