Poetry From The Heart by Barbara Ann Smith

Fear Of Finality


An undertaker greets me
long fingers grip mine.
Thermometer eyes pop from a face,
red and bloated as a stuffed lobster--
dead as one too,
pressure cooked in a stiff collar.
Face plastered in one position--
a frown.

Inch my way into the parlor:
smell of flowers overpower me,
nauseous, shaky and giving jerky
looks over my shoulder - it's creepy.
I remember his loud laughter
winning a game of cards;
shrill bets at Famous Joe's
and the time he dropped his wallet--
into a pitcher of beer,
vivid memories--
gems without flaws.

I look down to see,
a face at peace, as it never was;
freeing me from the fear
of finality in death,

I whisper--
sleep my friend--
sleep, my time is yet to come,
don't forget, you owe me ten dollars
the Skins lost again!

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Fear Of Finality

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