Before the funeral,
Mom said,
“Could you write a poem, please?”
My worst and dreary dread—
words to say at the funeral?
I’d rather stay in bed.
How could I describe you, my perfect muse?
Just kidding—SNOOZE!
It’s more fun to frolic; play; and tease.
Like we used to on the driveway,
before the crash,
the fire,
turned you to as—
NO.
NO.
NO!
I’m there again. I need to leave.
A funeral poem, for you:
“Your beauty,
your grace,
your ugly face.”
HA!
Misdirection,
my insurrection;
words I’ll never say.
I guess, some things are good now?
We no longer clash,
BUT YOUR BODY IS ASH,
FROM THE CRAS—
No!
I can’t continue on.
How about I write a song?
“When snowflakes fall, I’ll think of your face,
lighting up with joy.
Never mind—poke, poke, poke!
I miss having you to annoy.”
It’s funeral time—
I’m not ready!
Not ready for the world to see.
Not ready to recite,
I lack the foresight,
to discuss your absence in life.
I’d rather stick to my lyrics;
they’ll stay in my head,
as you’ll stay in our hearts.
Remember how embarrassed you got by farts?
And just like that, I have a story to tell, I do!
Did you hear about the Farting Serial Killer, did you?
He couldn’t get close to his victims,
his name was Stu.
Stu wanted more than anything; the thing he wanted most: to kill.
It would be his lifelong thrill.
I know you don’t think farts are funny, but listen, won’t you?
Stu, his gas, it got in the way.
Then one day….
He achieved his first slay!
What’s that? Sirens outside?
The Po-Po were on Stu right quick.
Stu ran to the bushes,
plopped his butt down,
ready to wait for a while.
That’s when he felt it:
Taco Bell.
Moving;
building in his insides.
Stu had a choice:
to hold it, or let it come forward like a shout?
Stu couldn’t resist—
he pushed it out!
The fart rang out from the bushes,
calling attention to come.
Stu went to prison,
and never again saw the sun.
You died.
NO!
NO!
Too sad.
This is supposed to be my poem for you,
and it’s wrapped up with Stu.
It’s not fit for a funeral;
what words would ever be?
I’d rather distract myself with Stu,
and make up silly poems of you.
Afterward:
I read this poem to Mom.
Mom sighed and said,
“Just recite a psalm.”