poem from a "wordle"

Big Tent Poetry

the funeral home looked like gone with the wind

the last niece arrived late for the viewing.
she skirted the swarm of ghouls milling
at the door. camouflaged in dusty dull
black carapaces, the females mimed at
humanity with tears and scraps of laces.
once past the canopy, an unctuous guide
in graphite chanted her through hushed
doors and past the crush of zombies,
messily strewing the dead man's wake
with the remains of his backbone and
his embellished balls. The debris of a
half-eaten child in miniature mourning
answered to the fates of the bereaved.
her uncle was already on the loading
dock, fortunate.



(when I copied the words, half-eaten and child ended up together.  I could not resist)