White clapboard church rises out of clay
Church yard cemetery overflows across the road
Cotton patch stubble in serried lines
Black plumed honor guard – crossed swords archway
Someone preached a formal sermon
“What the hell was that?’
Kilted bagger piped three times ‘round
Lead the mourners to the grave
Piped one last song
Removed his socks in the parking lot by his car
Our dead friend would have asked for a guitar
Called out to mourners,
One last time, “Are you in?”
Shoulder to shoulder
Spilling out on the road
Formal funerals are for the living
The dead wait to attend parties
Held in their name
Plow Boys and friends
Seeding the ground
1-28-24
My husband's poetry 
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