BETWEEN FUNERALS
A black-suited man
plucks your name
from the felt board
in the foyer.
One by one
the white letters
clink
into a plastic bag,
the kind built for sandwiches.
—from Rattle #52, Summer 2016
__________
Felicia Krol: “I write because my brainthoughts are made of words and they need somewhere to live when I’m not thinking them anymore.”
