A call from an old friend at Eight,
He said; wear a black and don’t be late.
I was there just before everyone arrived.

A rose on hand, as white as snow,
Then after a moment, I let it go
And gave it to you.

But how will a dead person appreciate the flowers?
They can no longer touch or smell.
How can they even tell?

Familiar voices cracks the silence,
Tom, Gary and Mary are all here,
What a perfect way to interfere.

A wine they offer,
A talk from the past,
What a blast that never last.

Four old folks in the wake,
For the first time, I am not late.
And for the first you’re here Kate.
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.
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Writer: M.E. Flores
Hour12, Text Prompt12