The Funeral Home


In this cold place,
you've become a case number
and a printed cremation application.


Your identity just
a name on a bracelet
on your blanket-covered body
wheeled to the medical examiner.


We sit as a family
in a cramped room
surrounded by coffins
and pictures of an angelic Jesus.


We are interrupted by apathetic stares
and inappropriate conversations
carrying from outside this room.


Condolescences sound hollow
coming from strangers
paid to utter them.


There is no humanity here;
we are an appointment
and a check receipt.

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"we are an appointment" Love

"we are an appointment" Love it!

When ever I turn around I see a shadow of a stranger