We moved the couch onto the porch,
the TV to my sister’s room. Tin chairs
now line the wall. Dad lies cold amid
the blooms arranged by Wendell Butt’s
in loving memory. A wicker conch hangs
on the door; it holds a small bouquet,
to sign of what’s inside. Tomorrow
they will come: a town of mourners
for their own. But now the night is thick;
the scent of flowers smothers me.