Folding Chairs

The clip-on tie was too tight, a polyester choke

that made my neck itch while the preacher spoke.

The air in the parlor was heavy and thick and sweet,

smelling of lilies and the steam of the radiators' heat.

I remember the damp wool of my father’s sleeve

and how everyone looked like they were waiting to leave.

Aunt Martha was a name on a card, a blurred face,

hidden under a lid in that quiet, velvet-lined place.

We sat on those metal chairs that creak when you shift,

watching the dust motes in a yellow, slantwise drift.

I didn't cry. I just watched a button on a stranger's coat

and felt the scratch of the tie like a hand at my throat.