Moira, 69…or Mary, 68
as you variably were today,
placed in blank indifference before us
like a bowl of wax fruit.
Silent, we sat
in tight-packed black-suited rows,
blanking out the hired-hand minister
who barked out the garbled facts of your life.
The unwelcome ringtone of a baby’s cry
mocking the soulless soliloquy-
and we, the bit-part fascists in this self-funded drama
should have worn our armbands-
because what we did was,
we burned our books today.
And the memory banks that fleshed us out
with forgotten childhoods,
have gone up in smoke.