by John Repp
The boy says, “Why’s Uncle Dave’s belt loose?”
I’d contemplated the corpse for some time
without noting the belt. The dead man’s
wrinkled fingers lie parallel to one another
along the belt. These people have handled
the family’s dead for decades. The air in this
absurd parlor smells like the perfume counter
at the Juniata Woolworth’s. 1958. July. Before
the parade. The people mingle companionably
or awkwardly or, in three cases, don’t. Riddled
with decay, doffing his logo cap, the eulogist
notes the dead man’s team remains undefeated.
John Repp is a writer, folk photographer, and digital collagist living in Erie, Pennsylvania. Sheila-Na-Gig Editions has just published his sixth book of poetry, Never Far from the Egg Harbor Ice House. Much more about Repp, his work, and his influences/obsessions can be found on his website, www.johnreppwriter.com.
