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Thu 22 Jan, 2004 06:31 pm
Across the table I sit and wonder
His face so straight, it looks like thunder
Out the door, not a word he'd utter
In the bars people would scurry.
Get out his way in a hurry
It can't be his nature
He's not violent
More soft and silent.
People would say, what's wrong with his face
That man of yours is so straight laced
When we go on vacation.
He's like a new man,a new relation
So gentle and kind so patient.
But when we are home, it's back to the other
You'd think he was married to my Mother
Father would say, leave the man alone
Even if he has a face of stone.
He works so hard, not as a candlemaker
Not even a cake decorator
He's just our local undertaker.
Wow! Joe. Love the title of your poem. What a great surprise at the end. Did you ever wonder where the term "undertaker" comes from?
aside:
Are you male or female? It's difficult to tell because each of your poems seems to change viewpoints.
I am male. Glad you liked the poem, thanks Letty.
Don't know were the word Undretaker came from, Have wondered
Well, Joe. The embalming business has become euphemistic. I suspect originally, it meant to take underground. Yikes! Now this delicate profession is referred to as Funeral Director.
The fact that one may not be able to distinguish the gender from what you write, is really quite a tribute. It shows your versatility.
Thanks Letty. Your comments mean a lot, it make me feel that I want to keep writing.
That's the intent, my friend. Were you one of my students when I taught, I would have felt rewarded.
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