Sunday Poem: Funeral

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Funeral

At the service, a woman rose
Then looked down, cleared her throat
And said, voice shaky:
"He made the best ham sandwich."

Some of them laughed
Some were confused
But those who knew best
Breathed out in sadness
(you do know that sound).

They each knew a moment
Some time of hardship
They sat at his table
And he would make lunch.

Bread, ham, a slice of bad cheese.
The hum of the fridge.
He understood, nodding:
"Yes."

With him, just a sandwich,
But it was the same
As fish by the shore
So humbly made.

He was missed.
Too few cook like him.