Regret


If he had died where he was born,
Louisiana bayou farm, 
the neighbors might bring gumbo, stocked
with crawdad heads, play Cajun tunes,
share dirty jokes he used to tell.

But this is New Jersey
so there’s lasagna, marinated olives,
antipasto and angina.
The voices are flat, complaining
about traffic coming from the funeral home.

If he had raised two closer sons
they might be laughing now, at how
he gobbled ice cream cones out in
the yard, afraid her friends would tell
he’d cheated on his diet plan.

But they haven’t giggled in years
and talk now just to quibble
over how the chaplain may be black,
and whether bagpipes at the funeral 
would be considered tacky.

If he had lived a few more years
he would have gone to weddings where
his grandchildren would seat him near
the front-most pew so he could see
the way his family’s branches spread.

But he lies stiff inside the coffin
covered with a veteran’s flag, immune
to the impassioned eulogy recited
by a preacher who never saw his face
or to the flowers wilting on the altar rail.


Ali Fischer