POEM: Funeral Suit

Worn one more time than the number of funerals you attend,
that black suit hangs forgotten — yet dreaded.

It hangs dusty in a closet,
or musty in a bag;
and you’re most listless when it has
a crisp dry cleaning tag.

In good years, it never crosses your path — or your mind.
In bad years, it’s needed repeatedly.

There will be a year in which someone will pull it out for you —
carefully smoothing its lapels —
the year you move beyond bad years.

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