Funeral Pyre

I don't remember my first funeral,
the one for my pop who'd once
paid me a quarter to open his medicine bottle.

I remember my second funeral,
the one we don't talk too much about.

I remember when more distant relatives began to go,
and I, having reached the age of horrible-to-be-around,
would not attend their services, their farewells.

I remember wondering if it would come back to me.

I remember my uncle, my cousin, my cousin.
I remember my high school friend,
and my long-ago fiancé.

40 years of funerals now,
and what I remember best
is that I can write what and how I durn well please.