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I was drunk and went to the wrong
funeral home when my neighbor Milhollin died.
Turns out this fellow I played ball with years ago
worked there and he pulled me over and said hello.
I told him what I'd done. Hell, he said, we're short
a pallbearer anyway. We got a funeral in the parlor
in the back, and we need another man to carry the load.
So I went. Spoke to the family I didn't know, took a few
hands, smiled at some women, carried that casket.
It actually even made me sad to see that stranger
handed down into the dirt, hearing all that crying.
I was halfway home before I thought of Milhollin,
wherever he was, dressed up and in his box, waiting.
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