Undertaker Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

At school he always sat
pale and withdrawn
in a corner
shielding himself from taunts.
Undertaker’s son!
Son of the box man!
Digger’s apprentice!

Now he is the undertaker.
Stands in the corners.
Has his salesmen deal with prospective clients.
Smiles self-consciously,
fidgeting with the catches
on the boxes (does not want
to call them coffins)
as with his school satchel
in which there might somehow be
some knowledge to acquaint him with life.

He looks across at a door
(that someone has not properly closed)
that he does not want to enter
but does not want to leave ajar.