The flowers between our yards
were bleeding pink from their white petals

as if the pink were dripping onto the
dry leaves under my feet

when I plucked one out to remember you.
I told Brother-man it must have been

the most beautiful color I had ever seen.
Surely this has to be a joke,

you, God and his paintbrushes must have
hurriedly whipped up something in the dark

when I was up watching shows about
husbands and fathers who ****.

Then I spilled my tea in your chair
on Christmas Eve. How appropriate.

I even let out a yelp, not uncommon
for you, you dear, sweet old woman

who couldn't hear her own thoughts,
too stubborn to hear the thoughts of others

but always willing to listen.