The Polka

The preacher paused to catch his breath.

He spoke of life and then of death.

The silence was a heavy shroud

that made the weeping feel too loud.

And then a phone began to play

a polka from a distant day.

It chirped and wheezed a happy tune

across the crowded afternoon.

I bit my cheek to stop the air,

and looked down at my shoes in prayer.

I felt the giggle start to rise

behind my tight and burning eyes.