there is a funeral home across the street,
familiar tune embracing the wind
like that of a melancholic memory.
you too remember that distinct smell,
and when death herself passes you by,
i can see you clearly.
when she visits you,
remember that funeral home across the street
then for a brief moment,
you’ll see the crescent shadow hiding
amongst the veiny floorboards.
i’ll compliment the decor
but i won’t mention the chipped paint,
or the marks on the windowsills,
or the water stains on the ceiling,
or even the decaying furniture.
this house has strangers in it
and we are none the wiser.
