Three men in dark suits
sit chatting on the stone wall
that rims a funeral home sign
set before a large, white, Victorian house
shaded by elms, a house
bearing the body and mourners
these hired drivers await.
Just down the small-town street,
a white-bearded monk
in a long, hooded, white robe
paces in waiting
before the open doors
of his dark, empty church, its pews
splashed by stained-glass window light.
The road to the cemetery
crosses train tracks
that pass an open-air station
where a gaggle of travelers stand by.
Then an unseen
train, from a distance,
sounds its warning of approach
and the waiting
drivers and monk and travelers
all turn toward
this heavy, solemn, slowing
force.
Waiting by Mark Belair | Lemon Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
