A Funeral

Last Thursday, a man waved white, 

but the grass was painted with war.

Everything he kept inside his ship

had tipped over into the red sea.



Today, the orchard ceiling of the church 

is the underbelly of Noah’s arc;

and we are all just sitting ducks

waiting for God to cast His rainbow.



While we sit in confessional pews

our grief is lit like a cigarette.

We sneak drags of remembrance 

and bask in a halo of sorrowful smoke.



A cross and picture are held by a stand;

they both grimace with apology.

Now, you wonder if God is shaken

by His merciless creation of death.