Finite Part II

The ambulance wails Papa’s death
Down the street,
Screaming a drunken tattoo that pulsates
Between buildings like a wacky cartoon.
The sound draws a line down the sidestreets,
Splashing the buildings with its tension.
Lights pop in an epileptic frenzy of primary colors,
Frantic against the head of the truck,
Silent drama expanding pressure
On its still antlers.

The gurney gets caught on our sidedoor,
Awkwardly coaxed into the racing stall
Of the lower landing,
Its spindly legs stiffly pumping into the corners.
The busboys from the Indian restaurant
Stand in the alcove,
The steam from their skin
Rising like a shade around them.
The smell of curry sticks to our whole apartment,
In our clothes like a warm buzz.

They’ll bury him in his best suit,
Startched and sweet-smelling from the bag,
While his body floats in the sleeves,
Stretched like a doughy amoeba in the wool,
A caramel jelly smelling of spice.

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~ by SimmerSnow on January 5, 2012.

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