Funeral Tomorrow

Waiting rooms ,
With crepe-paper spiders
And flipping mindlessly through vending machines
Became quite dull.
Doctor?
Several weeks spun by slowly.
So tangled up in her.

Intensive care;
She's startlingly fragile.
Travel by jet planes,
But it's only temporary,
She says
Like an limp and empty glove.

Pressed trousers
Dressed in full black
Except for the tie peeking out;
Red,
Her favorite.
My only conscious memory
Of her cheekbones,
So romantic.