the funeral

father was angry
that I wore black
nail polish, my first funeral
unceremoniously torn
between grief and fashion
I donned all the black
my closet could muster

grandmother was my tall
redheaded alcoholic rock
that stood firm bwteen
father and the war
that was us, protective
and silent her will
against his

as I glanced dry eyed
at the bonnets
dusted off and
carefully displayed atop
aging heads, grey faces
I wondered
who would protect me now

waiting

always waiting
for the right moment
for more time
for love to find us

waiting takes the place
of living
and doing despite
the consequences

forever waiting
to have fun
to dye your hair platinum
and cut it all off

to wear that silly hat
to not care what others
may think of you
waiting

to be hurt again
the inevitable
glancing at the
beauty of life

ever so briefly
while waiting
to die