Funeral Crasher

 

Outside the crematorium ,

I am greeted by bullet stares.

Hissed Who is she ?

information sliding from the sides of mouths.

The car park becomes the OK Carral,

my father’s family and I

facing each other like gun slingers.

But cousin Heather breaks ranks

crushing me in a 52 year old orphan’s hug,

the rest of the family stand down.

 

I thrust a hand at family features

distinctive as the Windsor’s ;

plasticine noses fashioned by a child 

my mother’s genes have sculpted,

headstrong curls 

I have disciplined with straighteners,

skin pitted by extinct acne eruptions 

I have masked with make up.

So in trilby and swanky coat ,

surrounded by polyester suits and runaway ties

it looks like I am attending the wrong funeral.