Black Beauty Must Be Late

Driving to the library 
at a leisurely pace, 
a spit-and-polished black car 
suddenly pulls alongside me. 
I admire what little I can see 
of its stunning, black beauty. 

Then it speeds up to jockey 
into my lane ahead of me. 
Some enjoy a race 
but I’m in no hurry. 
Library books have learned patience 
waiting to be picked from their shelf — 
being a bookworm, they’re my ideal. 
When it passes by, I see what it is. 
My fingers tighten on the wheel. 

Then the hearse drives faster
and faster until it becomes as small
as a dark worm or maggot
far down the road in the distance,
finally fading like some ghostly pall.

A chill in my spine makes me all shivery
until a laugh erupts from all six feet of me.
I wonder where it’s racing to —
is it late to its own funeral?

I smile at the hearse
or at my mind trying to be clever
for better or worse
with some gallows humor.

I don’t usually smile at hearses.
Do you? Why would you
chance fate flirting with dark things
when we have a primal fear of curses?

Maybe that’s why funeral directors
appear dour, at best solemn.
Not a single one of their future
customers can dig up a smile
for their bitchin’ business wheels.

Must be hard for them not to take that personally,
considering their obsessive-compulsive attention
to every detail of its sparkling, immaculate appearance —
much as MGM’s wardrobe department kept Astaire’s
tuxedos perfectly cleaned and pressed for every dance.

Must piss them off or at least rile them
knowing almost every unsmiling person
will eventually take their final ride
in their black beauty — or one just like it —
with a frozen half-smile on their face.

They have just got to wonder,
would it really kill these people
to give it a genuine smile
before it’s their turn to ride?

And if they did feel this way,
it wouldn’t really be morbid,
God forbid,
just professional pride.