To My Uncle Kyle


You swore to me that God was a martyr
as you beckoned me up those concrete steps
I imagine there were bells gonging nearby
but I’m sure that isn’t true

your suitcoat was a perfect cut against the noon sun
and you smiled like you always did
with arms outstretched while I stood on one foot
in parody

I appreciated the sentiment as the other cars arrived
and everone else was crying while you and I
just winked and smiled in to our collars
but martyrs never bring anybody back
I whispered

I imagine bells were ringing
but I’m sure that isn’t true

funereal anticipation


two days from now
i’ll wish it was two days from then
and that i could be back here
in my drab, too small cubicle
eavesdropping on my co-workers’
impotent, constant complaints
because anything is better
than watching a mother
whose lost her only son;
whose lost her future grandchild;
whose lost her hope
in her loss of everything;
everything that matters;
everything that gets her out of bed;
everything that gives her purpose
to face a day in which she will know
that she’ll never again
her son again
and that she’ll never have
another chance.