Hearing voices over the white noise of a fan
blocking out sounds like heated conversations
with no validity, just stupidity

Wrapped up in this red afghan
which was handmade by the way,
wondering why these hands feel cold

And so another drama continues
while a new one is exposed,
entering the chaotic flow

Of life, familiar disappointments
with only one view point
serving as a thunderclap

That should awaken this lethargic state
if only it could relate,
and never be the fickle hand of fate

Is it okay to sit down to a meal
with barely enough to fill a plate,
when some African children on TV are begging

Sally Struthers pleads with you
to reach into your heart,
by way of your wallet?

This church where I was baptized
was the scene of my mother's wake
now every time I walk through the doors

A funeral flashes back to life:
I'm sitting in the front pew
with red eyes, and tear streaked glasses

While this director passes out laminated cards
with a cliched poem supposedly to comfort us
but all I can focus upon

Is the coffin on some rolling cart
sealed closed and weighed down
by cloth and floral arrangements

This man's insincerity candy coats his sing-song words
like some three ring circus announcer,
patiently awaiting for the arrival of clowns

mathiasthom
written 6/28/11