Funerary recess we were instructed to call
this thing, our first time here a month ago,
not “drawer” or “wall coffin” heavens no.

It was the only time Dad got angry all month:
I feel like I’m putting her in a filing cabinet!
Then they calmed him, expertly.

Today it’s better, just the two of us,
our misery drawn in tight,
arms hanging down like sash cords.

Neither of us knows what to do here.
We forgot flowers; no rosary to tell
even if we could remember the prayers.

He turns away a couple of times
searching himself for a tissue. I’m looking
around, thumbing change in my pocket.

All these names, all these places
to stand, the millions
of minutes spilling out

like regret on this marble floor––
Idiot me: I should be
looking after him, not listening for

the ambulance of poetry’s jangling approach.
With a jab of shame I turn and sure enough
he’s twisting around in his stiff shoes, leaving,

then coming back, over and over, to read her name.
For some reason I reach out and knock twice
on the little brass door with her name on it.

He asks: What’ll you do if she answers?
Then we’re laughing so hard his dentures pop out,
and I accidentally fart, and we’re laughing and crying.

As it turned out there was no act of poetry,
just something that happened, then
his arm fell across my shoulder.