Paul Bearer by Wayne F. Burke

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).