At the Funeral Parlor

When Grandpa lay before us at the wake,
His youngest daughter pestered everyone
To place their fingers on his chest or take
His folded, papery hands in theirs. Her son
Did it because he was her son; but we
Drew back, uncertain at her want of tact.
Out in the hall, a woman bitterly
Hissed in our ears, that was no way to act.

But no one knew how, and I felt relief
That she seemed to, at least. My cousins drank
The coffee with the powdered cream, and grief
Stirred all about us, while our faces, blank,
Awaited summons to the casket side,
Where someone prayed and several others cried.