Pome: Funeral Procession

Rolling past right now

---

Daffodils and the gang. Pic: Paradisio Publishing

---

---

Funeral Procession

i walked out the house

hung right, hung a left

kept going and at the top of the lane

by the workers’ club

two elderly gents in smart suits

thick overcoats

stood stock still

watching the street

across from these

three more garbed similar

plus four women

smartly attired too

and they were all statues

waiting for something

and i got it then, so i slowed down,

showing deference

for what they arranged themselves for -

for what

was surely coming from around the corner

of the end building

about to move into sight

right now

and

as i looked across, here it came:

it was::

nothing. zero. zilcho. nada. the cupboard is bare.

and i chuckled and kept going, chuckled at this coincidence that was not a funeral procession they were out to pay respects to

this sunglittered morn, but a moment they all came together for in freeze-frame, a moment i would have missed if i’d drank one more cup of coffee,

buttered another muffin

edited another page of the current novel (Surfin All SummeR);

a moment

i saw

that was a moment

in the funeral procession we all stroll along each day

before