in scented satin and velvet,
like a contented chrysalis,
I wait for transformation.

With my third eye, I witness
the protocol of the memorial rigmarole.

I hear murmurings of laudatory
epitaph salutations.

Mother always said I was as good as gold,
like Freud’s mother who called him:
“My golden Sigi.”

My face is shiny and rouged,
and I’m dressed better than usual,
with a Windsor-knotted tie,
a crisp white shirt
and spit-shined shoes.

Mourners don’t see that I can see
their weeping faces
and trembling hands
waving me goodbye.

I hear them mumble
that I’ve earned a good rest
and how comforted they are
by the serene look on my face.

I tell them I’m still here,
but they can’t hear me
as they stuff Scharffen Berger chocolate,
a miniature Piper Heidsieck ,

and a packet of my poems
in my pockets,
even though I try to convey

I haven’t finished revising them.