Never speak ill of the dead,
his father always said,
and his father was a pastor
who preached from the pulpit.
That’s why whenever
he thinks of his third wife,
and he does almost daily,
he never says anything bad.
Instead, he sends himself an email
and records for history yet another
evil deed she managed to execute
during the years they had six kids.
Between kids she drove him nuts.
He never thought she’d die
and never hoped she would
because as he said in an email,
the Devil has his hands full.
Then he saw her death certificate
and, by golly, it was embossed
so it had to be good as gold.
Since he couldn’t keep the original
he took it to the office
and made a giant photocopy.
Now he wants the right frame,
black as he claims her heart was.
So far he has sent himself 400 emails
about his bonfire life with her, a brief
prologue to the Hall of Fame injustices
he maintains he suffered simply
because so long ago he said “I do.”
He isn’t certain what she said.
Perhaps it was “You’re through!”
The Poet Community is completely reader supported, please help me keep it going.
Have you read Guy Farmer's social justice poetry book now available on Amazon?
Read poems by Guy Farmer on this site.