Member Poem

You aren’t allowed to collapse
at the casket, sobbing.
This behavior causes great discomfort
for the other mourners, forcing one of them
to puff out his chest and stride across the room,
face fashioned in supercilious compassion,
to lift you by your armpits, and walk you back
to your seat like some doddering geriatric.
Their first gentle touch the impetus
that slams shut a door, leaving grief
to hyperventilate, bewildered and
tear streaked, its palms pressed
against the hardwood laminate.
In appropriate silence, the message conveyed:
There there now. Show some restraint.
This is real life not some
goddamned movie. But
 
grief unreleased is distilled
at an average rate of one drop per second
into a lidless 55 gallon steel drum while
the angel’s share fouls the air at 1 ppm.
When full, this barrel proof distillate may
slosh over at the slightest provocation.
A snapped shoe lace. The sight of
a stranger laughing with her undead
mother. Frustration at a vaguely
perceived personal inadequacy.
The unbidden thought that she
will never read anything I’ve written  
and the barrel is kicked over. And
 
in spite of their vapor protective ensemble
the hazmat response team gets infected,
insidiously, with this pure form pain and
sorrow expressed as rage while affixing
labels and Teflon coated caps to sample vials.
After the last yellow suited team member exits
a fat, acne scarred deliveryman and his
ponytailed assistant arrive on the scene,
reeking of nicotine, to cart in a fresh barrel.
I can never make out the logo on their company van,
and they always manage to lose the lids.