Everyone could see your Pink Floyd t-shirt,
but not what we nestled below the half-shut
lid without the undertaker’s knowing:

full ounce of quality weed and a teddy bear
so loved the stuffing had dissolved, leaving
a floppy, pilled exoskeleton behind. Your skin,

however it could, looked like skin. Eyes
glued shut I’m sure but it looked more like sleep
than—I had waited you out until you

expired, as you were meant to, and I wept,
as I was meant to. Days passed, and I understood
grief to be a room I’d entered, with provisions.