Career Crisis

I think I missed my calling.
I am a writer
But I could have been
A planner of parties, a custom caterer.
Just look at the grace and efficiency
That went into your farewell gala:
A quick survey of homes,
A once over for each director;
And an informed pick of a pine box,
Varnished cherry for tony presentation.

Simple surroundings,
Spare yet moving readings,
And tasteful memorial cards,
Were all on my list,
To be meticulously ticked off.
I took care to create
An occasion to be fondly remembered.

That attention to perfect detail
Helped pull a protective tarp
Over the frightful flop of that other gathering.
There was a party that couldn't be prettied;
An intimate crowd
Of your nearest and dearest
Without the balm and benefit
Of floral arrangements and your final silence.
THAT shindig's theme was the brutal here,
Not the sweet hereafter, or the whitewashed what was.
It was filled with your frantic pantomimes
For more morphine, your moans
And shrieks and arm restraints.

There was some mingling when the drugs kicked in,
You conferring with the already dead
While the rest of us stood around
Dumb and uncomfortable as wallflowers,
Secretly wishing for a chorus
Of "The Party's Over,"
And everybody home
By dawn.