At the funeral home; amid peacock feathers

Goodbye Phil. The funeral home crowded to overflowing as friends, fellow poets, fellow activists pushed in to pay respects. A car full of cardboard and other recycling from the bookstore, I circle the block, blue Taurus stationwagon looking for a place to park, catching glimpses of the tall peacock feathers of the Aztec dancers as I roll by the full parking lot. Later they will gently shuffle in, as Felicia McGee is singing, their leg shells clattering softly; luminous brown skin, vivid aztec costmes of gold, silver, red, black. Jose Montoya, new haircut, no hat, quips good-naturedly: "Guess I'm going to MC this thing..." and presents a euolgy that any would be lucky to have read about them; about great deeds and the friendships of many. Many eagle references, by all at the podium; how Phil soared now, like a white eagle.