“Why do you attend so many funerals?” you ask.

“Have you nothing better to do?”

I have, but they were friends, the recent dead,

They once knew me and you.

“Did you have to go to their quls as well?”

I had to. Mourning is hardly a social call,

When one can rush in and then rush out,

Especially if the wake is small.

Death usually comes in triplicate,

This time a quartet came, back to back.

I have spent this torrid, humid week

Sweating, a sodden necrophiliac.

I go to mourn our friends. But to be frank

My presence has a selfish design.  

I do it so that when I join that trinity,

I will not be the sole mourner at mine. 

F.S.A. , 5 July 2015