The funeral procession
is marked by the lining of blue bonnets
on the sides of sidewalks
covered in children's laughter
and mixed in with bright blue chalk
put there by tiny hands
unaware of the loneliness of lies
as you stand there drunk and howling
not at the face, but at the disconcerted eyes
of some mystery man wrapped up in honest handshakes
and the appearance of something kind
while midnight stands alone in the sky
like some kind of funeral pyre
or a gun for hire
or someone's concerned father.