SECOND OF THE DAY

Maisy Shaw

 

In they come, that party of twelve.

Tears, tissues and tender words as they pass.

I quickly recite the usual speech in my head.

The daughter mouths to me, all snot and saliva strings:

‘Thank you’ – for what? They’re paying me.

 

They shuffle into pews, solemn and slow.

So. Bloody. Slow. Don’t they know I’ve another at three?

The organ blares the usual chords, masking the stifled sobs.

‘We’re here to celebrate the life of Kenneth …’ blah, blah, blah.

The family words. Wonder if there’s time for a cig?

 

They each take a white rose, dethorned and limp.

One by one placing them atop the veneered coffin;

God, not even mahogany? Poor Kenneth.

Uncle Steve blubbers and harks like a seal.

Aunt Carol’s not much of a looker either.

 

Cue the song. You Raise Me Up, really?

All of them fold: hiccups, wheezes, chokes.

They remain a wallowing choir,

A heaving sea of black coats and white flags.

My 3pm rolls up outside. Fucking funerals.