The funeral procession

Was shrouded in black

And the many attendees

Were all wearing masks.

Each past by the stiff

And paid their respects

Performing the shtick

That one would expect.

They all took their seats

In an orderly fashion

Knowing the atmosphere

Was too fragile for passion.

The whole room was silent

Not even a squeak

As they gently wiped tears

From their dry cheeks.

When the widow burst in

Sobbing, “He used to be mine!”

Her mascara was dripping

In oddly neat lines.

She sprawled over the coffin

For what could be worse?

And cried glycerin tears

All over the corpse.

The fellow mourners 

In pity looked down

And forced their lips

Into a tight frown.

The sobbing wreck’s hand

Inched towards a rose

Picked it from the body

And then held it close.

A boy sitting up front

Counted to three

Before guiding the widow

To her assigned seat.

The service began

Words were spoken with pride

Mourners acting as if

They feel anything inside.

The mass moved outside

To the graveyard plot

Where the body would be placed

And hopefully forgot.

The coffin was lowered

Down into the hole

As the onlookers watched

Like they had no soul.

While the weeping widow

Pumped out tears by the quart

And was reduced to wailing

When the tears ran short.

The coffin broke open

Under the weight of the dirt

Though the dirty thing was dead,

They all hoped that it hurt.

A large portion of the crowd

Met in the parking lot

Right the planned time:

4 o’clock on the dot

When the widow entered

Letting out one last sob,

A friend stepped closer

And whispered, “Good job.”

And the mourners all smiled

And the widow laughed

Proud of how adept

She was at her craft.

She followed through

And carried out the plan

She’d thought out so carefully

Since the knife was in her hand

The mourners walked to their cars

And home they all rode

As the widower sighed

And reached into her coat.

With her salt-soaked kerchief

She wiped off the smears

And dried what was left

of her glycerin tears.