Poem For Dolores
The worst part of grieving
is waking up the next morning
and they’re still gone, your love,
your friend, your ambitions,
your ideals. And that still, in
the little house beside the stream,
in the penthouse looking down
into the the cities’ maw, in
the trailer that rattles in the wind,
still, you have to get up
and make fucking breakfast
and the breakfast tastes stupid
because breakfast is stupid,
more of the ubiquity of living,
it all happens here and most
of what happens isn’t worth a shit.
But really the worst part of grieving
is waking up weeks later
and forgetting that they’re still gone
and you’ve had breakfast
and read the paper
and are on your way to work
before you realize
your grief is slipping away
like everything else, back
into the stream,
into the city crumbling,
into the wind and all that the wind
carries away.
