The Wake
Rob Krabbe
There’s a magical stillness,
The sound of the no-sound,
after a rattling heave-ho.
A final breath fades,
in this quiet un-place.
The sound of the no-sound,
after a rattling heave-ho.
A final breath fades,
life recedes, I’m casually
sitting here with a slightly
warm body, in an empty shell,
a living urn, where the soul of
a frightened desire used to be.
The relatives, travellers, and
gypsies, bright shining faces;
The oily smell of mothballs
and Queen Ann’s lace doilies.
The body cooling, death; fooling
the fleshy keep, here to stay, crepe
skin, spider-web fragile, like the
spirit slips earth’s loosening embrace, floating gently away.
What? Into cold outer space?
Sure it it could be too thin,
That’s the land I sleep in.
The funeral party, a heady
Wake, Steak and Bake.
The final giddy grieving,
ready for the influx of cash.
The final generous take.
the official count of assets.
All the beautiful faces,
traces of shame; inevitability.
Then, when will Uncle Bill
call everyone communists?
How long will it take
Crazy Aunt Lois to end
the current bar-storm?
up and out, drunkards!
Truth be told each night,
Old, spindly, Crazy Aunt Lous.
would leave the bar each night with
strawberry bubble gum
in her hair.
Our sweet little baby James!
Looking to meet the years,
the love of his life; some
king of good-time Charly’s.
Miss Jane Anne Collins.
loved her some Bob Marley.
She felt less white, at night.
78; bright plastic hot pants,
and thy-high boots,
“made for walking,” ha!
Nancy Sinatra style.
I’d much rather take
my time; guzzle dark red,
and while away the hours…
Well, never mind.
The surprised of us and
hurried nothingness in
bewilderment, jest, seeking
baby’s first cry, to end
the fetal lifelessness.
A scary scant 80 years.
The womb in the portal,
never would be the same,
Nor could he seem to spit out
God’s name, no he’d matter how
high he was, or briefly insane.
The last mourners, inch’s.
Sneaking down the quiet
lonely path to the
south gate, only to
have to wait for a
low and slow freight train.
Feast of the freshly
baked sweet breads.
Coffee and six kinds
of “church potatoes
plus cake,” stakes were high.
I looked around.
A framed velvet
black-light Jesus
Proudly waving his
certificate for a
year’s free haircuts;
first prize for the
post funeral hike
and steeplechase.
In the end, we
raised our glasses.
A toast, to the sharp,
brilliant, creative mind,
Catch up on the family
mass melodramas.
people we genuinely,
loved too late.
people we sadly,
loved more, to hate.
Good to get caught
up on the secret
gossip, and that
crazy time we had
in the town of
Guadalajara, Mexico.
Where the aliens, me,
David Brinkley, and she,
landing her first real role
as the bigomisted wife
to all three Uncle Claudes.
A great farewell, huzah!
Fabulous funeral! To all!
Here’s Mud in your eye.
In a cave south of Gaul.
Two hours later… able
to light up a self roll,
the soullable, lovable,
Crazy Aunt Jane had
a blessing for the mourners…
“¡Es hora de ponerse
cara de mierda!”
Copyright@Rob Krabbe
