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Faux Pas

I sat with you in a back pew when
your father died; for you, stared at so long,
would not gape at the helpless dead.

At your mother’s funeral I thought to sit
in the same place beside you, decent as always
to the point of fault. Who would have guessed!

Dear friend, forgive my unaverted eyes.
But there’s no back row of the mind to hide
here from the horror of your dying.

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