Cancer

Have I, no respect for the dead
How ghastly the tone.
Sweat pouring off my brow,
Feeling the guilt, I inhale faster.
The devilish smoke,
Curls around my fingertips.

Toes tap and shifty stance,
Disgusted whispers from old ladies in black.
Purple hair in tight cotton swirls,
With conviction in their eyes.
They blame IT,
For his death

Cancer is the reason,
A bastardly Thursday at a mortuary.
Death usually catches up to us,
In time.
I light another.