Italian Wake

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Italian Wake
His lips are blue beneath
his heavy moustache, his hands
lay like freckled cod
on his baggy black lap.
Scarlet rosary beads coil
around his white fingers,
a wee crucifix dangles
from his knuckle.
His widow looks first at her own,
then at his hands, the big black shoes
on the satin.  She wants to tell him
to get his feet off the couch
as the coffin yawns around
the wrinkled little
corpse of Sal.