Tis a gift to be humble
in a white clapboard
kind of way
at the funeral of a father
of a friend.
Where the altar gets a lemon licking
and the rat poison will kill you
in a state of grace.
Still, there is comfort
in the Congregationalist dust
on the iron radiators
the armrests rubbed
to the bone
and the dogeared hymnals.
All men deserve
a burial
where the pews reek of faith
paraffin wax
March apples
and sorrow.