Kitchen. 11:34 p.m.

I thought I knew grief and how to mourn,

losses suffered, loved ones scorned,

Scourges of God, Redemption Devine.

Then, you died, and I’m not fine.


At your funeral, we knelt, we prayed,

sang the hymns, our hearts displayed

for all to see, the tears we wept,

and now, in private, the tears I kept

hidden from world come again

to bid me company like, you, old friend.


Nights as this one at the kitchen table

where the glass of vodka renders me unable

to speak of this enormous loss,

into the Outer Darkness tossed.


Back to the funny quipping face for the crowd

knowing I’d rather howl aloud.

You would tell me, “Shhh, hush…not now.”

So, I gulp more vodka, and my head I bow

as the tears flow down my ruddy cheek

knowing I won’t inherit with the meek.





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