The stragglers walk past the last
of the sandwiches.
Why do so many egg?
My dad bloody hated the things.
His opinion counts for nothing now,
not even at his own wake.
A disheveled sausage roll
lies on a silver platter
all on its own.
Did it fall on the floor?
59 eaten and one discarded,
red-carded for some reason.
And it’s open season
for old folk to talk pish.
Oh, I mean reminisce.
Stories that change
each time they’re told.
The quiche looks withered and cold.
Three quarters wonder if they’ll be next,
one too many after paying respects.
Old bastards he hated
and a woman he dated,
conspicuous like
the stray peanut somehow in with the crisps.
Hollow words from the service ring in my ears,
he worked at this firm for 30 odd years.
The minister had no fucking clue who he was,
that one time he cried,
his tasteless stir-fries.
Half-eaten pork pie, a feast for a fly.
One hour in,
attention diverted.
Laughter echoes around the room,
betraying the hole in my heart.
He’s already forgotten it seems,
talk turning to bagels with too much cream cheese.
JAMIE GRAHAM is a Scottish writer and Seinfeld addict on the wrong side of 40. He’s recently featured in Pop to magazine, 101 words and (b)OINK zine. Find him on Twitter @jgrahamwriter
