The ham is sweating on the floral plate

The ham is sweating on the floral plate

while Uncle Dave stares at a spot of grease.

He doesn't blink or turn to contemplate

the way the conversation finds its peace.

He takes it out with a paper towel,

a wet, clicking sound in the quiet room.

It’s not a wink or a heavy scowl,

just a sphere of glass in the funeral gloom.

Tonight it will sit in a juice glass of water,

staring at the ceiling from the nightstand,

more honest than any son or daughter,

fixed and cold, exactly as planned.