Through the heavy wooden door
that swings freely on well oiled hinges
the sticky sweet smell of flowers surrounds,
drawing them into the dimmed darkness past the door -
each in turn leaving his name -
passing into where the music plays the loudest;
the low, solemn sounds moving dimly
like the man in black behind the curtains,
tall, with eyes that never raise
and the soft whispering lips that never part,
nodding row by row to smoothly drift,
each in turn to look past the polished glass wood
and the soft pleated silk that lines the lid
waiting to be closed and the screws set,
with each passing cuff ruffling
the curtain that hides the wheels.