An undertaker greets me...
bony fingers grip mine.
Thermometer eyes pop from his face,
red and bloated as a stuffed lobster...
dead as one too,
pressure-cooked in a stiff collar.
Face plastered in one position...
a frown.

I inch my way into the parlor:
smell of flowers over powers me,
nauseous, shaky and giving jerky
looks over my shoulder...it's creepy.
I remember his loud laughter,
winning a game of cards,
shrill bets at Famous Joe's,
and the time he dropped his wallet...
into a pitcher of beer, vivid memories...gems without flaws.

I look down to see,
his face at peace, as it never was,
freeing me from the fear
of finality in death,
I whisper...
sleep my friend...sleep,
my time is yet to come,
don't forget, you owe me ten dollars,
the Red Skins lost again Saturday.