Irony

It Seemed a Quiet Funeral
Christopher Bogart

It seemed a quiet funeral,
a dignified affair.
Everything was by the book,
with very little fuss.

There were so few mourners,
And those that were there,
Were whimpering,
Their soft broken sobs muffled
In silken handkerchiefs.

“Did you know him?” Someone asked.
“Not very well.” Another replied, “And you?”
There was a pause.
“I thought I did.”
It was the measured response.

He had been ailing, it seemed,
For only a brief space in time,
A mere wink of history’s eye.

What a paucity of liberty.
What meager remains.

“Maybe he could be revived,”
I optimistically opined.

Too late,
I fear.

They had already dug the grave.