they place him ornamentally between the telly
and the fire, like a tall sideboard with meat in
and no doors, he isn’t bothered, more
furniture than else, his nip alone spoiling
the visual symmetry of cheap veneer,

flies struggle for grip on his shiny slopes
while a spider seeks refuge in a nostril,
displaying little nose for danger,
visitors come and go, some touching,
some avoiding while others just make sure
the old bastard is really dead,

wheelchair bound for most of his life, I recall
how much longer he was than ever tall,
with no further sign of Mr spider the casket lid
was fixed into place, sealing a sealed fate as it were,
a closing reminder of ‘gone’

with a necessary tilt required for exit, uncle is allowed
to concertina slightly, his waxy nose squeaking like a
child’s violin as it wiped the cheap internal laminate
followed by a double knee knock, closed
by a slow and solitary stitch threatening mahogany fart,
(the sort indeed that start small wars) after a short pause,
dignified by silence the ceremony continues, slowly
down the path to the hearse,

then done in a few silent seconds.