Velvet Glint

The eulogy droned, solemn and slow,

about Uncle Ted, long years ago.

The priest, in robes, with a pious air,

spoke of grace, and whispered prayer.

Then a sudden tickle, a clearing throat,

a violent sneeze, a sound remote

from reverence. His glasses flew,

a perfect arc, a startling view.

They landed soft, on velvet red,

right in the front pew, near the dead.

A silent snicker, quick and low,

a breath held back, a hidden show.

My sister's elbow, sharp and quick,

and that small, bright glint, a funny trick.