I worry,
if not for more
Drab sympathy wreaths
swept at your door

You keep,
The oven and breath
Heated yet furloughed
Pretext of death

Does mourning meet it’s grandeur
In filled heirloom rooms
Or elicit passing judgement
When the tracks have made the man
Yet the weights hang in the air

Reprimand stature or lucky eyes

There’s a keeper in me
Whose hair has gone matted
White knuckled and rocking
The way your estate wanes
How do these borrowed shoes stand

Do I meet exemption
Do I need to check a form
to feel something tender
For from which you were torn

What could I have told her
Bolstered
What could I have told her
Bolstered

There’s creation tucked away
between hand and holster