A Funeral With No "E". A previously unpublished classroom limiting exercise. A long black box stands on a platform in a church. A holy man lifts his hands in air and says holy things. Boys, girls, patriarchs and matrons wail, hands shaking. Mouths turn down. From a balcony blasts organ sounds, mournful chords drawing sobs from raw and aching throats. Out a window and far away, a dog howls. Our mass is through, and four strong guys stand and approach that sad coffin. Hank, a pal, thinks, Damn: no way to grab that forty bucks away from him now. What a mooch that bastard was. Don, his doctor, nods his noggin, and in his mind says "If only that fatass so much as took a stroll now and again, I wouldn't bust my back to lug him now." Al, his boss, is angry that this lazy bum had just got his Christmas bonus, fat lot of good it did him. And Ray, a guy from his block, thinks, How long must I wait to go for Nan, his widow? That girl is hot as lava in black. A convoy of cars with lights on rolls through town. Folks going to work must wait. A man looks at his watch, a woman picks up a Motorola and dials a chum. A grandpa in a pickup roots in his schnoz. At last this train of doom halts in front of wrought iron bars which, rusty, groan and admit our group. Hot sun today, no clouds. That man of God shouts an incantation, and down it falls, our dark shiny box. Mom throws dirt on top; Sis bawls into a silk hanky. A song starts but nobody joins in. Finally it's through, and all turn around and go. All that stays is a lowly ant. Standing on a shoot of grass, it has no way of knowing what all this is about. It knows only sugar, dirt, and sun. It sings a tiny ant song and happily chomps upon a crumb. c2005 by J. Robert Lennon.