The way your wife cried
still haunts me
when I look at the dusty corners,
knowing the grey nothings
have only collected in your absence.
When I left your bedside-
I walked out the peeling red
front door, I looked at the sky
the same stagnant blue and godless white.
Bright pumpkins gleamed on the stoop
No candle-lit smiles were carved to
shine through that night.
This year, I noticed
leaves changing while I drove down four eighty-one
The trees couldn’t help it,
eager to remind me of the pain
accompanying reds, oranges, with rot, death.
A year ago, my lips touched your forehead,
a chill so heartwrenching I felt it again
as you descended six feet before our eyes.
Flocked around your wife that day,
mourners cooed and cried.
I sat alone on the stoop feeling left-
over. No longer who I once was.
I still don’t know.