The car stops at the traffic lights
The one behind parked so closely
Through the back window
I can clearly see the crumpled, teary faces
Of the mourners within
Cold eyes staring blankly ahead
Studiously intent on their performance
Of their own, personal interpretation of sorrow.
How entertaining
To witness such a parody of emotion
Played out
Through the strained, tumbling, debris
The situation commands.
Flakes of fallen, sodden tissues overloaded
With evidence of their grief
Cling to the black costumes of the cast
Each flake awaiting the applause of its audience
To be provided by the obligatory mumbling
Of others condolences
And by the sombre passing of hastily scribbled
Sympathy cards.
Bravo! Bravo!
Such a moving production
Surely worthy of an encore?
Which there will be, of course
Once the players are gathered together for the last act
The finale
The flamboyancy of their floral tributes serving
To verify and measure
The earnestness of their regard
For the leading lady.
How touching.
And how unforgivably empty, the play of it all
For never in life was any appreciation delivered
Never in life were tears shed in true sympathy for the now deceased
Never in life did any one member of the spurious troupe care to listen
Nor choose to 'hear' the real, desperate reply to their automated question
"How are you today?"
Not a one.
Without doubt, the only genuine tears
Ever to crawl down their cheeks
Are the ones spilled for themselves.
No surprises there.
Red
Amber
Green
The traffic lights change
Granting permission to move forward
Allowing access to the destination
Of their journey
And with that permission
I also move on
My spirit returning
To the white silk of my temporary lodgings
In the back of the hearse
Where even that very silk which my waxen form rests upon
Is fake
A cheap, rough version of the real thing.
Of no matter
The ground will welcome me soon enough
The ground will gain nourishment from my passing
And, in due course, pass it on
The ground will comfort me
And at last, expose my hidden worth.
I am eager to reach such contentment.
Move swiftly on, driver!
Let the theatre of this absurdity come to its end
Far better things await me
Beyond the final curtain.
Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard