Your goodbye has me surrounded
by all the roses you never gave me.
It is unsettling to have my senses
assaulted by bouquets of irony.
I hear you whisper in my ear,
“Scissored petals only steal
green from my pockets.”
Like a deposed witness I answer questions
with expected answers of where and when,
but why is deflected by, “God only knows.”
Is this Tuesday? Sunday still shows on the calendar.
Time flies…Well, the fog has wings…
A depth of six feet requires too many choices…
metal or wood, decorated dignity or austere,
definitely not a gray lining, the hierarchy of padded chairs…
Now I am expected to shed tears just because
eternity is punctuated with stems in pretty vases.
I want all of it to be over…You’ve already reached silence.
I hate to sew, yet here I sit stitching wounds….
praying I have enough thread.
©Susie Clevenger 2016