I am a buoy

At your funeral
I stand in
the back, by
the marble cheese
and sweet pickles,
hoping that you’ll
know I’ve paid
my respects, that
you’ll see me
through the haze
of slow moving
people, and you
understand why
I can’t stand by
your coffin,
floating out
there amongst
your family
and friends
and those that
really knew you,
or at least I
hope you understand,
because I can’t
come closer,
even though your
coffin juts out
like a pier,
tries to reach
me through the
misty crowds
that talk of the
weather and
your old smile,
and I know
I am just a
buoy out there
in the sea
and you
are the dock
I cannot reach.