OK.
How are we doing here.
We've got a little time.
OK.
We're going to end on some happy note.
So we'll do three death poems if we have time for them, so.
The first one is called "The Last Clubhouse Eulogy",
which is the title poem of my book.
I stare at the room full of prospective ghosts trying
to dignify mortality.
They tribute the likeable unfortunate,
renaming her pain with sunshine.
Waiting words with ill grown dream logics weedy asylum.
The husband remembers his insoluble adultery
while the daughter confronts the physical vacuum
of near orphan-hood.
Ignoring languages inadequacy, they
gather collective memories creating
an oracular familiarity of she recently passed.
By a shrewd pruning of her rueful behavior that does not
convey the obsession of her interior motion,
the new history makes a long and curious mourning
of beguiling minimalism.
This was no blood blunder, we comfort only the living.
She definitely receives our kind words now.