I sat at the window
watching the kids across the street
do cartwheels in their yard.
They shrieked and galloped
and flitted about the
green, green grass—
enjoying all the seconds
of this first summer-feeling day.

And I sat at the window
drinking ginger ale
for my hangover.

In the distance,
I heard the bagpipes.
The old, old, old lady
who lives next door
died yesterday—
so they must be her bagpipes.

They filled the air
with something
I had never felt before
on this familiar block—
with its dead end,
mowed lawns,
and oak trees.

I felt nothing
about the old, old, old lady
but guilt
for feeling nothing.

A boy I went to high school with
died yesterday.
He was knocked out in a fight
and went into a coma.

He was twenty-two.

I hope he had bagpipes.