The Viewing

The room smelled like a garden

rotting in a closed closet.

Too many lilies and the heavy scent

of a woman’s perfume in the row behind.

I was seven and my legs didn't reach.

I spent the hour picking at a spot

where a cherry cough drop had melted

into the red velvet of the pew.

It was a sticky, sugar-dark stain.

I wondered if the man in the box

could hear the heater kicking on,

or if he was just as bored as me,

waiting for the music to quit.