Portrait of a Lady

The old woman, she’s dead now. The children stare and poke at her body nestled inside the fine silk lined coffin and I watch without looking. Strangers all pay their respects and lay flowers on your stomach. I can’t help laughing knowing you were terribly allergic to almost all of them. So if your ghost is hurting in the arm, or if it’s sneezing in the afterlife well, now you now know why. They’ll lower you into your everlasting vessel in hopes you’ll navigate to old rickety gates of St. Peter’s. Tonight while I’m drowning myself with the wine you kept in your cellar I’ll toast your formidable portrait that hung in your living room. Great and massive with a heavy ornate frame it is and yet there’s you in the centre. You, timid and petit with your little lips pursed together and wide earnest eyes looking down at me getting punch drunk making punch drunk love with the cute son of the priest. And I don’t know if it’s the wine or wave of euphoria but I swear I saw your nose turn drippy and red as those little timid eyes took a harsh stare with me. Whatever lady, you’re dead.