What am I?

Swan white,
chalky sweet candy cushion.
Dry, I’m paper smooth.
With a lick, I’m icky sticky wet.
Pronged into a flame,
my outside blisters black,
scabs, peels off – a delicious snack.
Underneath swan white again.


At Last, Goodbye

From my place beneath the willow tree,
I see the sad slow conga line.
Men and women draped in black,
accessorized with misery,
except for Aunt Sally – as usual-
in her ridiculous red hat.
The minister, by request,
pristine in white.

Clearing his throat, the minister’s words
become the music.
Children, husband and friends
waltz around me.
One, two, three. Come together.
One, two, three. Hug and part.
To and fro,
swirl and go.
Curtsey down,
dirt in hand,
one, two, three, let it go.
His turn, her turn, respects are paid.

Uninvited, the November rain joins the dance.
Plop drops onto my mahogany coffin top.
Tip tip tap,
in a whirl, umbrellas unsnap.
The minister’s words tumble faster
until at last, Amen.
The procession leaves,
no one lingers.
I’m alone, happy at last,
On the wet grass.