This is foolish.
Not where I want to be.

Eyes fall on me.
I make guesses
about the identities
of the gawkers.
So-and-so’s sister.
So-and-so’s kid.

Who I am,
they know well enough.
Yet, always and ever
the snickering
and resentful notions
that I must endure
because I am the outsider.
A black sheep of a black sheep.

Who is that boy in the funeral home?
Dressed rather like he should be
at the country club.

Look closely.

He is not so clean-cut.
Long hair, lightly stubbled beard.
Dirty paint splattered on khaki shorts.
Old moccosins.

A simulacrum.
Not quite nouveau riche.
Not quite a beggar.

Not quite natural.