Pink flowers line the coffin, skirts ruffle under tarred feathers. An irresistible spark lights our magnolia tree ablaze and lets the entire town go to ashes. Nobody said it was anybody’s fault, but everybody’s looking around anyway. Creaking pews, clinking glasses, crisp newspaper folding and expensive molasses. These are the signs of wealth, the bounty upon which all great men must stand if they are to become regal and noble. Regal and noble they are to become as they kick wheelchairs out of their way in favor of sports coupes and solid-gold yachts. Out to sea they’ve never been, yet they puff out their chests like old sailors. They hold the floor in the local saloons as they slander good men for no good reason. We all see this time and again, but we fail to stop them. Why? They have materials that we could possibly use when they’re done wiping their asses with gold leaf.
WHARVED 