Yes, we were kind, and brave, and honest once.
Beige foyer to tan restroom to beige chapel,
the fifty folding chairs, the eighteen people,
and, somewhere, him. My suit coat pulls my shoulders.
Monica, Bob, Amanda, Mike, and Pam,
how terrible to see you all again.
The reverend, too; an incorrect a**umption.
And, laid apart beneath the track lights, what?
Collarless white tuxedo shirt. A mullet.
The unimaginably bad foundation.
Comic books, slipped in by his long-lost father,
whom someone told his son liked comic books.
A small laugh, burning nose, and in my eyes
a little water. Home. Feet somewhat sore.
Later tonight, the full cost being paid,
we gather in a dark place outside town
and, in accordance with his simple will,
Monica, Pam, Amanda, Mike, and Bob,
Pistol and Doll, Shadow and Rumour, and I
drink up what little money he had saved.
And now we're mean. We're terrified. We lie.