-me, once my girl, and the near death experience-

               we’ll stop by to pay our respects;

               wear clothes not too often seen by others.

               the line is long and its tension is foreign to our sensibilities.

               the bereaved, sitting silently in a deep, black row,

               receive us with grace and unfeigned smiles of recognition.

               I’ll say: “sorry for your troubles.”

               you'll follow, saying simply: “sorry…”

               (the word evaporates at your mouth before its end)

               we’re young enough not be seen as rude if we don’t stick around

               and in lieu of lighting-up on the mourner's front porch,

               I’ll say: “let’s get outta here and go to the bar.”

              (we have other friends there, and like us, they're among the living.)

               you'll nod in silent agreement, and we'll leave that place.

              

                Fall River / 70s-ish