My grandmother died.
At the funeral home I stood
aside from the crowd, hoping I did not
look like too big a jackass to
anyone.
A guy I did not know
stepped up to me and
asked: "And you are?"
"Pallbearer" I said.
Afterward, everyone went to
my Uncle's house and
started to get smashed
in honor or remembrance, or
whatever, of my grandmother
who had been a raging alcoholic.
"Hello Paul," the guy I did not know
said. "Hello," I said.
My cousin Wally stole a bottle
and he and I went to his room
and drank it then had a wrestling
match and tore up half the room.
My Uncle appeared in the doorway,
a look of disappointment spread over
his red beefy face. He said that it
was alright to have fun and
even to raise some hell but
there was a limit to it, and
a guy had to know his limits;
he said that my father and he
raised hell when they were
young too but knew when to
stop: knew their limits; he
said my father (who died young)
had been a tough son of a bitch
and that he was a tough son of a bitch
too and that Wally and I were tough
sons a bitches, and his arm dropped
off my shoulder and he went
downstairs for a refill as Wally and
I began to tear the rest of the room
up, and grandma
lay in the cemetery, no longer
to neglect or
abuse anyone.
Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in THE DAILY DOPE FIEND). He is author of eight collections of poetry--most recently BLACK SUMMER, Spartan Press, 2021. He lives in Vermont (USA).
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