Mortuary Science Poem by Laurence Overmire

Going to the Jones’s
Seven o’clock, not to be too
Sharp, the chit chat’s in

The oven, slow broil
Never rare, never well
Always somewhere in the

Undetectable middle
Timers spinning backwards
From the start, the choicest slice

Of evening piled in
Candle wax, left dripping
While feet twiddle

Nervously beneath the table
Shoes aching for release
Bleary lips drambuied

Into not knowing why
Two forks contest dessert
The stain of coffee on

White linen marks the
Leaving, too late to
Retreat from bald replies.


(Previously published in The 13th Warrior Review, Asterius Press, Vol.1, Issue 2, November 2000)