My Brother Was Buried Wearing a Red Jacket

Walking up to the coffin 
(a little larger than a viola case), 
I see his jacket lying stiff 
as baseball card gum. 

Compact, vermilion. I take the thick cloth 
in my hands and touch the fake gold 
of buttons above the navel and wrists: 
swirls of new pennies, video game tokens 
beaming. 

But a tan smear on the collar, 
lint small as sand leaves no smile 
for the undertaker. Bulging coat pockets. 
Mannequin smell. Cuffs slightly askew. 
Wrists white as the skull of Yorick. Hearing 
the gravedigger sneeze, I wait 

for the culpable thing. All those Sundays 
I should have noticed the red dye, 
the fuzz clinging to his turtleneck, 
Mom’s lipstick running down his jaw, 

and what should I say of the wool 
in his jacket, the lamb bleating there, 
nose down and grazing? Each minute 
he grows fatter, chews grass 
near the side of a road.