It's A Wonder Any Of Us Are Here At All Poem by Francie Lynch

The death of a somebody
Is life affirming.
My favorite attend
In the ante-room,
Eyeshot from the shell.
They appeared to be telling
Off-colored jokes,
Childish giggles, anxious glances.
Others talked nervously on their health,
Their swing and trips, car salesmen, and politics.
Violet remarked on the wedding, the bride's redolent dress,
Brocade and settings.
The vows were personal and promising.
Funeral Home is an ironic euphamism;
But the coffee is strong and bitter,
I burned my tongue.
I didn't see much black, mostly pastels.
It's a multi-media presentation of family,
Old and getting precariously older,
Cavorting at the cottage,
Sitting under Christmas trees,
Holding up scarves and mittens.
Everyone smoked then. Everything's hidden.
Someone's grandson touched his hand,
Then recoiled into the nearest waist.
Except for the flowers and box,
There was vibrancy and planning
Where to meet following the graveside,
For a drink and toast to why we're here,
To why any of us are here at all.