Trimming The Wick

The twilight of the Friday
Amanda was buried
the crows were particularly noisy
After the last shovel fell flat on her casket,
Amanda's three friends invited me to brunch.
I suggested Chinese.

I made no reference to the deceased.
I spoke instead of climate change,
of how blue glints from a crow's luxurious coat,
of Castaneda's Don Juan, the Apache Shaman.
They looked at me queerly.
We marched our separate ways,
to not meet again,
except for Margaret
with whom I rendezvoused the next morning.