In the lamplight of the dissipating livelyhoods
you smoked a cigarette and watched, revered
passing cars, respectfully slow.
I counted the telephone posts
as the marching black
where I wasn't welcome
passed by the blackest of them all.
Step toe to toe, heel to heel
while you confront your look of grief
with a choleric heart.

"If she was walking beside them most of them wouldn't notice."
You're determined to heckle the silence.
I've counted seventeen telephone posts and still haven't heard a word
but the sibilance of breathing in rain and out ash-quiet.
"All they're thinking is how many pints they can get in
after this
without getting too drunk
and what fond memories they'll talk about."
The slog of the middleaged, we're sidelined, fouled by youth and history.
"Just shut up."
"What?What? You'd rather I just sit and watch?"
"Yes."

We post like crows on telephone lines.
"They'd notice if we were walking beside them."
She has no answer for that one but chews her lip,
I wait for her to caw.

The line of black, sodden shoes have passed.
And the second funeral march begins,
out of the line of fire of grief broken parents.
We the blame worthy walk, long after the coffin,
the last taints of black ink washing out with the rain.

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