A drive-through funeral

We are going to the funeral. For kim.
A cousin, I'm told.
Lutheran, according to the obituary.
Lutheran funerals do not expect non-christians to participate. According to an article.
And going to the funeral, in a car with a father and a brother and the oil in the car will all be gone soon, according to my father.
Casinos are depressing, according to my brother.
Capitalism is ending, according to my father.
We're 20 minutes from the funeral home, according to Megan, who drives the car, who lives with brother, and even in Bethlehem PA
SIGNS blight the neighborhood poles, WE BUY HOUSES
and if we are going to the cemetery,
back please the car into the parking lot
We the family, who do not remember her, who have slouched to Bethlehem through rain, who will shake hands with  mourning strangers, who will think of other dead, who will dread the next, who will remember, who will not remember, who will shovel dirt, who will lay flowers, who will fuck desperate in the coming hours, who will praise jesus, who will mock jesus, who will "stay in touch", who will drink at the reception, who will plan the coming days, who will disperse, who will live eternal in the promise of another promise, who will feel in sleep the brush to their hand of marble crematoria, or of wet faux-wood umbrella handle, or of tear on cheek, or of mother's old hand, and the night will come, and the day, and phone calls, and traffic, and rain through the window of departing car and rain over the desert and rain over all the graves.
We are riding to philadelphia.