On the Way to See Dad
I took an Uber to your funeral. The driver was eating a carcass of some sort, his face bleeding motor oil across the steering wheel. He was robed and everything smelled like grease and regret.
He kept trying to tell me something or warn me but his voice sounded like
chowder or the gibberish a phantom might moan when there is no more human flesh left to eat.
He wasn’t in any hurry and you were still dead and I really wanted to be sorry but there were maggots poking through the headrest wiggling their gluey blind eyes at me.
When I leapt out of the car on 1-5, half the vehicle was aflame, the driver’s torso smoldering black tar. For a brief moment, the smoke broke apart in the shape of a face that could have been yours or anybody’s.