The Last Bow

The program, glossy, in my hand.

Creased where I'd held it, tight and long.

Tucked in a book, a foreign land

I'd meant to read, but got it wrong.

The scent of lilies, heavy, sweet.

A kind of cloying, thick perfume.

The dark suit chafed, the too-tight feet.

Another body for the tomb.

The words were spoken, kind and trite.

The faces blurred, a quiet stream.

Each goodbye, a muted light.

A waking from a long, bad dream.

But still the sleep pulls at the edges.