The suit is lade out with shirt to match
shoes shined to a blackened reflection.
Shirt ironed as if it mattered, it doesn’t
no one will notice, he would, not now
not from his box or later the flames.
The suit is lade out with shirt to match
armour to stifle the tears welling inside
so no one can see the shaking form
shielded from view as the eulogy
is read and poem delivered.
The suit was lade out, now hunkered away
lined with salted tears which were missed
by handkerchiefs that dabbed dolorously,
at the corners of weeping eyes that wept
knowing he was gone. Just gone…