The Dear Departed Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

they don't talk about
the dear departed
never do they crop
up in conversation
it makes you think
did they really know
each other those two?

Christmas, you would
hope for some kind
of glass clink for
the dear departed
they are there, you know
the dear departed
into memory they fold

the sad thinned blade of
a sallow bone penknife
fills you with dread
of a gone era
funerary bric a brac
in clammy window
the charity shop
the next stop for things
of the dear departed

you'd think we never spoke
in past present future
the way they carry on
these folk
criss crossing in parks
doing dog-lead fencing

there's one, look!
yap-yap on a string
under arm, the Daily Mail
rehearses plot at work
something that cant fail
moans about the office bitch
witters on about

computer scams
traffic jams
no mention of us, nothing
in despatches, you'd think
a funny story would be

on the cards, something
Jim always said, or Fred
no Day of the Dead
or firecracker skull-grins
in the street, the best here is
pilgrimage to car wash
once a week