This man is unaffected
by the smell,
the smell of flowers in a room,
but too small for him
not to see
the woman, the mother, the wife,
and the delicate roses,
pink, rosary shaped,
are pretty there
pinned to the quilted satin top.
People file in line
waiting for him
to move on,
to move away
from the mother-wife
that was there
for thirty-eight years
and then not.
There and then gone.
And, this man,
in the bits of conversation,
not talking,
but moving through the words,
will do his waking later.
Not in the smoke filled waiting room.
Not in the crowded parlor.
But in the quiet of their room,
now his,
when talk is done
and visits stop,
in his room,
filled with things:
hair in a brush,
make-up in a bag,
her clothes hanging
in the closet.

Deborah LaVeglia


One Response

  1. I would like to vote for this poem

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