The Improper Guffaw

We were burying a man who spent his life in a rage,

screaming at the screen when the points didn't fall.

The priest was talking about a brand new stage

while we stared at the flowers against the wall.

The director walked out in a suit of funeral black

but his left shoe caught the marble with a wet, loud groan.

It sounded like a fart or a sudden, plastic crack,

and my ribs started shaking in a way I couldn't own.

I bit my lip until I tasted the copper,

turning the snort into a heavy, fake cough.

In a room full of people acting correct and proper,

I was the one who nearly let the engine go off.