mother is dead

well, i said, mother is dead and all her jewellery is mine, 

mine — starting with the small gold bracelet

and with the serpent's head,

and the art deco style necklace, found under her bed,

together with her wedding ring with the precious stone of ruby red. 

the vultures circle with jealous eyes, 

hares out run turtles for the prize 

— lost relatives turn up like bad pennies with tears in their eyes,

first to show merit are sisters margaret and dorothy,

again at each other's throats, parted only by uncle sam's authority.

mother's cabinets and draws are all laid out

 — the priest prays at the bedroom door, and holds off the mourners as they stand weeping, while aunty jill's baby lies sleeping,

unknown to the hordes gathering to pay their respects, 

i'm stacking and keeping, all the things to be mine,

till i can tout for more than a dime.