Incinerating Dad

If this were a movie scene, I thought,

as we stood in the parking lot waiting our turn,

there would befall a tempest.

And strangely, suddenly, then it came:

a downpour— heavy, heavy rain.

The funeral parlor people provided

umbrellas to usher us inside—

to the furnace room, 

running on a strict schedule

we had been admonished not to miss—

two ovens in constant use, no frills,

Like a boiler room, just a concrete floor

we stood on, till along came Dad,

in a cardboard box that was briefly opened

so Sandi could scissor a piece of his hair

in case of genetic curiosity.

There he lay, in a plain robe,

or gown, looking extremely small.

They asked if anyone had any last words,

and I, as the eldest, offered these:

He was a good father and we are lucky

to have been his children. 

In he went.