The Undertaker Blusters

By Daniel P Stokes

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Morning.  The undertaker in my bedroom.
I meet him as I enter.  The coffin by the wall
bolt upright.  Egyptian-like with bellied head.
An inverted mandolin.  He goes to lift it by himself.
It's small.  It's very small.  He struggles.
I help him. We place it on a stand. An incline.
Oh God, I feel, he's going to exhibit her again
here in the doorway of my bedroom. He swings
the casket open.  Today she's dressed in pink.
The angle is too steep.  She crumples.
I rush to pick her up.  She gurgles.
I've heard of headless chickens.  This means nothing.
She twitches.  I glare. The undertaker blusters.
Her eyes, I watch them open, focus.  She knows me.
Her face is fuller, younger.  She shrugs herself to shape
and straightens.  I feel me smile.  "You're going
to be alright?"  I question. "Yes," she smiles.  I laugh.
"Yes," she laughs. I place my hands upon her shoulders
laughing. I know something's not right
before the clock goes.