The Funeral Procession

You would have thought
That it was someone famous,
Certainly not a nephew of mine.
The procession of cars
Following the Hurst
Stretched as far as
The eye could see,
With headlights on
And flashers flashing,
Snaking their way
Through the streets
Of Vancouver.
The motorcycle police
Who escorted us
Had their hands full
Routing us through red lights
And across major intersections
On the drive from the mortuary
To the graveyard site.
Traffic was held up
In all directions
Until every single vehicle
Of the procession
Had made its way through.