The Mortician (A tribute to my father)

His youth invested in the perfect end, he stood long at service;
diviner of Egypt's ancient spicy art,
reduced to the strictures of law and tradition.

The labor was humble and tedious,
seldom recognized, and short of recompense;
hardly the stuff of dreams fulfilled.

True, an invitation to his table never assured gourmet repast,
but impressive care was heeded,
lest one dishonor the guest.

Far too soon he too laid still, gravity inspired, warm out, cold in;
trussed, sewed and wired lest gusts should expire;
ensured of a holy and dignified exit.

Ensconced in familiar hues of wilted flora,
then covered with the familiar red dirt of home;
the man finally rests, while others wait.

In spite of reward denied on this earth,
bagpipes and drums resound in farewell;
'Hail Receiver of the Rites of Kings'.

Amen.

(c) 1997 Paula J. Roberts