Sport 38: Winter 2010
The day is bright, the air is still.
Your tooth hurts, and you take a pill
Because another said you should,
But pain is neither neat, nor good
To be thought easily relieved.
The leaves of which no wind bereaved
The branches rest a glaring hue
On lawns beneath the office-view
For one-hand typists eating lunch.
Above, the clouds retreat to bunch
A chasmal edge of blue and loss.
Your boyfriend skim-read Kübler-Ross.
In bed he ventured his belief
That largely it's obsessive, grief.
Your face, in half-light from the hall,
Revolves: that isn't it at all.
The summer grinds another week
To dust and words that they won't speak
When briefing editorial.
We tried at the memorial:
The afterward reception's spread
Lay dormant on its doilied bed,
Condolatory—your smile was numb—
Consoling with a biscuit crumb.