In a sense,
I died right there with you
on the road going south
to my own grandpa’s funeral.
You two didn’t know each other
but you decided to go out at the same time.
The news kept me driving hysterical
for six hours, gripping the wheel constantly
cursing the stars for stinging my eyes.
I thought about climbing
up out of the sun roof,
riding the van like a wave
somehow steering the thing
with my own nervous intensity
Imagined my teeth
gritting away in the night,
as if on *******,
eyes expanding
trance like in fear
of sadness
For three nights I felt that
fear. Felt those piercing bullets
ripping clear through
your clean white tee
leaving you cold,
and breathless
on some ****** covington street.
When the WWII veterans
fired out the shots of salute
for my Grandpa,
I somehow didn't flinch
and thought of you
denying those dudes
any joy of ripping you off.
You didn’t understand death
and neither did my Grandma,
for that matter.
just one look at her
trembling eyes exposed
life's distant rawness.
no grounds
for the wonderment of death.
Then as the trumpet
rang out, it echoed
across those mountains
like a legend itself.
Streaks of reality and
Color all unearthed
at once. Heavy
silence.