The Carpet

Someone said oh god, I hate funerals,

and laughed. I looked back at the screen.

I was nine years old. My grandfather.

A building I've only been

inside once. I don't remember

the service or the box.

I remember the carpet — greenish beige,

the pile pressed flat. The clocks

on the wall, maybe. Folding chairs.

My feet not reaching the floor.

I've been thinking about the carpet

for two days. Nothing more

specific than that. Nothing less.