Perpetual Care

The three of us — mother, daughter, and son —
visit Dad’s niche down a fetid hall
of Sunland Columbarium No. 1.
Bouquets in sconces droop on the marbled wall

beneath Dad’s urn, mass-made with polished metals,
near a stained ceiling panel, sitting high
above the many spotty, browning petals
of roses below. To my unpracticed eye,

death looks like a scam. A warehouse. But we’re here,
Dad. We love you. Always. What is that smell?
Corruption, quicklime, insect spray? Or fear?
It makes me want to rebel

against this mock eternity, festooned
with somber frippery, while in the air
there plays a repeating, piped-in organ tune,
the tootling postlude of perpetual care.

And yet — be still. The carpet, if threadbare,
is so with loss. Grief speaks its elegy
in private anywhere. Look up: It’s he.
We’re here. We love you, Dad. Perpetual care.