maybe it was the reflection
i saw in the mirror this morning.
i don’t know. but,
i started thinking of your funeral.
i remembered how i drove
to your home, and stood in line
to see you. visitors
looked into your vacant eyes
silenced, and bowed their heads
this was goodbye.
i went through the door and cried.
you were almost alive, i thought.
when i came out the other side,
i walked around the house
with the moonlight,
and saw your mother
standing there in the half light
of the porch light,
trembling, smoking a cigarette,
to tell her second husband
what she was feeling, and finally,
in angry tears, screaming for people
to leave her dead son alone.