Last Rites

 by Brett Rutherford

If ever they came
around with Bibles,
they stopped that long ago.
One German New Testament
that came over from Alsace,
somewhere in the cupboard,
was not of any use,

for Harry’s death
was never expected,
not even three knocks
at the window like when
the Grim Reaper came
for ailing Aunt Leni.

Seldom more formal
than long underwear,
he had lorded the table
that night. Three games
of gin rummy, and
wouldn’t you know
he won all three.

They had some beers, of course,
and something they ate provoked
a farting contest. Even Grandma
let loose, but Harry won, of course,
ass-trumpeting the bass clef.

Contented with himself,
he dozed on the day-bed.
They let him be.
While Grandma slept
in her downy feathers,
his heart gave out.

I watched them burn
the day-bed mattress.
When you die, they said,
you pee the bed. There’s
nothing dignified about dying.