Joe Bisicchia

Visiting the Funeral Home

She tries a coffin on for size.
Has done this through the ages.
Wiggles her being.
Sits up to take a swig of ginger beer.
Sets it aside.
So many people call this a parlor.
But, isn’t a parlor supposed to be
next to the kitchen?
Or the ice cream place down the street?
She wonders if there is a preponderance
of evidence
that when we die, we die.
And why would this be called a home?
She tries to nudge herself comfortable.
Sits up to take another swig of ginger beer.
And falls fast asleep for a slow while.
Tomorrow, she will visit the flower shop.
And rather than choose some stems,
she’ll see a sale on marigold seeds.
And will be brazen enough to plant them
aside the funeral home, next to the kitchen.
Cloudiness always eventually slips away.
She shall again sing life as unending
as suns collect on her pathway, and
reacquaint themselves with her song.
She’ll wiggle her being as she walks by.
And shall count all her Thanksgivings.
Each time, ever grateful she is, like
at the ice cream parlor, mint chocolate chip.
Preponderance of evidence of being alive.
She is everyone who has ever lived.
Sure as the sun itself, but even more.

Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, he has written three published collections of poetry, as well as over two hundred individual works that have been published in over one hundred publications. His website is www.widewide.world.