We are just watching the clock
until the last tick
is upon us.
just waiting for the paneling
on the six-foot-long box
that will keep us company.
the make-believe tears
are in the way of a chicken dinner
as the sound of laughter breaks free
with the arrival of
ice cream and chocolate cake.
palms exchange hellos and goodbyes
as exaggerated stories fill in the blanks.
conversations about
new cars and real estate
and how lovely your new wife is
are swinging from the chandeliers.
the latest fashion in black and white
is on full display
as your life is explained
on a three-inch card.
ridicules comments on how good you look
are sitting on the edge of long tongues.
the oohs and the ahhs
are showing their respect with words like
much too young much too young
over and over again.
shinny shoes look at the crowd
as the flowers provide allergic reactions
to watering eyes.
stained cheeks from the reddest of red lipstick
mark the spot.
old women
with three hairs growing from there chin
are telling stories of yesteryear.
recipes are traded like baseball cards.
condolences with words like so sorry
sound like Charlie Chan.
people you have not seen in forty years
are telling you there your best friend.
there is a monstrosity of bull shit in the air.
Mercedes Benz brochures
sit quietly at the kitchen table
with crazy thoughts of inheritance.
your wife has picked out all new furniture
and your seven-year-old says
now we can go to Disney Land.
it is the bird and the ant
and in three days
it will all be over
and nothing else seems to matter
until you are the next
batter up.. ζ
- Ken Riccio original poems ©
