Jo'burg Funeral
i.m. Marius Neethling

They leave their grief at the door
for us to tidy, with the remains
of sticky koeksusters, crustless sandwiches,
cold coffee congealing in
solid Presbyterian cups.
                               Drive home through traffic jams,
bolt themselves against night,
set alarms, call dogs inside,
watch another episode
of The Bold and The Beautiful.

My mother potters, lost,
microwaving bacon and eggs
the way he always had,
in that reliable wedding Pyrex
from fifty years ago.
                                 Alone on the cold back step
I catch the dip of day into night,
blues into purple,
loud hadidas flying home
shouting unhurried farewells.

The wendy house he built for me
in the garden slips
into dark; his teeth
in the bottom drawer
wrapped in a rubber hospital glove.