Three Puddles Late

A cricket in a suit jacket —

herringbone, slightly too long in the sleeve —

was three puddles late for tea

when the procession turned onto Bellworth Lane.

Six pallbearers, all moths,

carrying a matchbox lined with clover.

He removed his top hat.

He did not know the deceased

but it felt wrong to pass.

The kettle would be cold by now.

The scones, already halved and waiting.

Mrs. Wren had set the saucers out at two

and it was very nearly three

and the daffodils along the fence

were almost rude in how alive they looked.

He stood there on the cobblestone,

antennae low,

watching the procession hum a hymn

he half-remembered from a smaller April —

back when he still fit his other jacket

and tea was never something you were late for,

just something that was always there.

The last moth passed.

He straightened his lapel.

He walked a little faster but not too fast —

it was, after all,

still a funeral kind of afternoon.