father, emeritus professor of philosophy, man of few words.
His mark left on her because of the neurotic mother. There
now with him, in his best suit, in her sitting room, ready
to go. A bit of a squeeze to get him into the coffin,
such angular bones. The indignity if he didnt reach
his birthplace nicely laid.
A clapped-out taxi hoots from the street below, she gets
the driver to help her manhandle the coffin down three
flights of stairs. A two-door car, they tip the front
seat forward and screw the box round onto the back seat.
No seat-belt to hold it firm.
gets in next to the driver, settles. Soon, hinges whinge
as the metalled city road withers away. An hour from Bucharest
the chipboard coffin starts to creak.
a blinkered lazy mule
quickens its step
the way at a fork. Potholes and a sudden lurch. One hand
to hold down the map in her lap, showing the driver where
she thinks they should be going. Here, towards Draculas
Castle. The other hand making a desperate grab at the
coffin lid, gaping open.