Shunned At A Funeral - The Poor Man's Funeral

She sat alone in the second room
Hands folded tight, head hanging low
Polished wood and borrowed flowers
Ticking clocks and wasted hours
There he was in borrowed
Suit too big upon his chest, and all she saw were empty days, dreams
Deferred in quieter ways
You preached your whole life to half a
Room, same cracked pews, same
Borrowed tomb.
Sunday
Mornings, folding chairs, hope
So thin it barely cared
You could have been something
You could have climbed, left
That church, changed your time, but you
Stayed broke in a town
That knew
How to measure worth by revenue.