At the Back

At my father’s funeral, my brother directed me,
“Look at the back. There may be a lady,
clothed in black, sobbing.”

So, when Hobert died, I knew where to look.
I was seated with his family, in the front.
I turned and glanced behind me. No
candidate. At the second hymn,
unable to control myself, I looked again.

There she was. Because this was Kansas,
she wore a high-class Western shirt.
In her 40s to Hobe’s 85. After the funeral,
she didn’t greet anyone, was out of there
like a shot from a rifle, revving up her truck
the family said he’d bought.