The Weight of the Rental

The suit is still hanging, a heavy black ghost,

smelling of incense and rain on the coast.

I reached for my keys and I found the card,

a face I loved once, now under the yard.

The folding chairs wobbled and sank in the muck,

while the priest talked of mercy and holy good luck.

The wool is still damp from the mist in the air,

clinging to shadows of who wasn't there.